


Sons of the Unloved

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Malcolm Bright, Blood Kink, Corporal Punishment, Dark Malcolm Bright, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deus Ex Machina, Drowning, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Evil Husbands, First Time, Homophobic Grandmother, JizzJazz, Kidnapping, M/M, Malcolm sexes men and women, Marriage Proposal, Masturbation, Mentions pet death, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Murder, Murder Dads, Murder Husbands, Mutual Pining, Past Child Abuse, Regular Pregnancy, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Dysfunction, Shipping goggles on bitches, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, Surgery, Torture, Unplanned Pregnancy, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, bloody blowjob, fuck machine, getting away with murder, john has a large tool, lolsob, murder fuck, no major character death in Whitly family, serial killer Malcolm Bright, thrusty thrusty, we gonna wreck this twinks whole alignment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 71,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24165289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: “The hell you doing trespassing? This is private property,” says the man. His brown eyes take in Malcolm’s Gucci loafers, posh coat and leather gloves.“Is this your junkyard, sir?” asks Malcolm.“Yes. I’m the owner. Paul Lazar. Who are you?” he says.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Paul Lazar | John Watkins
Comments: 34
Kudos: 41





	1. Monkey Wrench

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KateSamantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateSamantha/gifts).



> but he shall acknowledge the firstborn, the son of the unloved, by giving him a double portion of all that he has, for he is the firstfruits of his strength. The right of the firstborn is his.
> 
> Deuteronomy 21:17 ESV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more talky less shooty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Kate! I couldn't wait to post this even though it is not yet finished. My original intention was to finish it first and then share on AO3 but then I had to call a spade a gotdamn shovel when I hit twenty pages.
> 
> tl;dr: I.O.U. Fic.
> 
> [Warning/Triggers: Fic diverges from the end of S01Ep06 All Souls and Sadists. Mentions pet death from S01Ep06. Pet death is mentioned as John's sad childhood experience. Tragic but not graphic.]

Isaac Parker puts down the knife dipped in the blood of his mother’s douchey boyfriend. Malcolm approaches him, hands raised, eyes lit by two-tone flashers, and he kneels before a scared child. Malcolm already regrets promising Isaac that his mom Crystal would always be there for him, when he remembers how his own mother Jessica would show up but freeze him out when her face slipped.

“My life is over, isn’t it, Bright?” Isaac asks.

“That’s what I thought when I called the police on my dad. I took my dad’s life away. I thought my life was done. I started over in a different place, on a new schedule, with people I didn’t know. Here I am, working to help you. Sooner than you think, you’ll be a whole different person. This terrible moment will feel like a sliver of a dream.”

“A sliver of a dream,” repeats Isaac, touching his costume, the fake fur rising with his steady breaths, tasting what Malcolm offers. He’s a wolf in boy’s clothing.

Malcolm blinks and he’s in a different place, another time, and he doesn’t know himself. He sees himself like how Isaac does, a little man who feeds him sweet lies and cheap candy. He holds the pocket knife to the little lying man’s throat. He wants to shut him up forever.

“Please. You can choose to be good. Start over with one good decision.” Malcolm kneels in the foyer of his family’s house on 3 E 88th Street and he faces the boy he used to be.

“Your life is over, Bright,” says the small boy who became a little man. Malcolm Whitly's pocket knife incises a red sliver of the dream.

Malcolm’s screams die as he retches and spit runs down his throat like cherry syrup. He’s awake the morning after Halloween. Night, mischief, and danger gives way to a reality somber and corporeal like Catholic mass on All Saints Day. 

Malcolm swears off lollipops and swears off making promises.

* * *

Malcolm receives news of the pending court order to constrain young Isaac to Gardner Psychiatric Hospital for treatment of nascent sadism. Isaac’s rage smolders, noxious and subtle, in Malcolm’s imagination. 

Gavin Parker meant to put his son Isaac away in the psychiatric hospital. Killing his father landed Isaac inside the very place which he dreaded. Isaac made his bed and now he will sleep in the psych ward. The law will uphold his father’s righteous will from beyond the grave.

Like a classic masochist, Malcolm calls Isaac’s mother, though she will not appreciate his charitable attention. With her late husband in cold storage and her hot headed lover justifiably pressing charges against her guilty son, Crystal Parker goes off on Malcolm, shouting herself into docile exhaustion.

“Where do you do your banking?" says Malcolm.

Once he transacts his savings funds, Crystal questions Malcolm on what her son’s admittance to full-time psychiatric care means in the long scheme of daily commitments. He’s drained after the phone call, but he welcomes the reprieve from his guilt. Response over reaction.

JT’s ring glints on Malcolm’s shirt, brief taps and a warm squeeze while JT coasts by with a styrofoam cup. Dani bumps the side of his desk and makes him take lunch with her. Malcolm doesn’t wiggle out because she gave him information on his father’s station wagon and because it’s comforting to watch her grub down wholeheartedly. He admires her spirit.

Malcolm doesn’t go home despite clocking out of work when his shift actually ends. Instead, Malcolm hails a taxi bound for Salvage Garden on Kidron and 175th Street in the Bronx. Fortified by his lunch with Dani, Malcolm’s ready to skip dinner as he enters a cluttered junkyard. Sundown is 5:58 PM EDT. He smells diesel in the November evening air and hears barking and train whistles.

Storm lights prevent undue injury from twisted metal and industrial refuse. Malcolm observes a cool blue glow that colors everything the same in an overblown trash heap. In twenty years, the station wagon is not likely to have the same paint job, windows, wheels. Like a hunter, he focuses on shape. His heart stills when he sees the tarp framing the shape inside his mind. Strength leaves him like sand through fingers. He’s left with a wood panel Buick station wagon 1990; plate no. VLG2226; VIN#: IHGBH41JXMN109. The information is a match, illuminated by his flashlight.

His kid leather glove skims the wood panel of the tailgate before he grips the lever. The lever won’t give. Frustration mounting, he beams his light onto the keyhole. Malcolm shines his light into the cargo area, squinting through the glare from the rear window. The anchor brackets shine like affirmation amidst the beige upholstery. His gloves thwack against the glass.

The noise of a large metal object clunking into dust gets his attention. Malcolm seeks out the source of the noise and he sees another shape, this time of a man in black. His watch, at a quick glance, reads 8:31.

“Hey! Hey! Is this your junkyard?!” calls Malcolm.

The man turns to face Malcolm. The man is between 5’7” to 5’10”, light skinned with a beard dark and gray in the eerie blue glow. He wears a winter hat. His jacket is zipped over dark coveralls typical of mechanics. Malcolm observes the knife concealed on the man’s right hip.

As Malcolm approaches the man, he has the crazy thought that the man will pull a gun on him.

“The hell you doing trespassing? This is private property,” says the man. His brown eyes take in Malcolm’s Gucci loafers, posh coat and leather gloves.

“Is this your junkyard, sir?” asks Malcolm.

“Yes. I’m the owner. Paul Lazar. Who are you?” he says.

“My name is Malcolm Bright. I’m interested in buying one of your vehicles, Mr. Lazar. Paul. Can I call you Paul?”

“You mean ‘may I,’” says Paul. “And no, you may turn around and evacuate the premises before I call the police.”

“Please, Mr. Lazar. I’ve been looking for weeks. Please let me do business with you,” pleads Malcolm.

“What do you want, Malcolm?” asks Paul.

He shows Paul the Buick station wagon, loafers scuffing the dust and gravel.

“I’m interested in buying this vehicle, Mr. Lazar.”

“Come back during business hours. Last thing I need is to get sued by a bozo who breaks their neck on my lot.”

“Are you selling?” asks Malcolm.

“We discuss the sale during business hours. Get out of here before I shoot you,” says Paul.

* * *

Malcolm works a half day before heading to Claremont. Ainsley loses ground to their father in an ill-fated interview. He stands dutifully over Ainsley’s shoulder, like any big brother watching, when she needles Dr. Whitly into raw fury for the camera.

While Ainsley and the cameraman she’s definitely dating review their video footage, Malcolm toes the red line taped to the cell floor.

“How are you doing, son?” 

Malcolm thinks of Isaac and dead bunnies on Halloween.

“Keeping busy. Otherwise, nothing on my plate besides buying a car.”

“Do you drive?” asks Martin, showing concern. “Has something happened to your driver?”

“Adolpho is in good health,” says Malcolm. He silently apologizes for giving Adolpho’s name to his serial killer father.

“Well, then. What did you have in mind? Lexus, Mercedes, Porsche?” Dr. Whitly weighs in.

“Interesting. You were an Oldsmobile man, from what I remember,” says Malcolm. Seeing Dr. Whitly frazzled as anything, Malcolm’s lips keep moving as he gets in a dig at his father.

“I have my eye on a Buick Estate 1990 station wagon with the wooden trimmings,” adds Malcolm. “I’ll pay the asking price if the wagon has custom steel anchor brackets.”

“Malcolm, my boy. Go for a newer model if you want to enjoy your new lease on life. That old horse will take you down a one way lane to no good end,” responds Dr. Whitly. His eyes flick up and down his son’s confident posture.

Ainsley’s lips part as she turns to Malcolm. Emergency alarms and red lights cue a bloody intermission in another Whitly special.

* * *

“What do you want for this vehicle, Mr. Lazar? And can you tell me how you obtained this station wagon?”

Paul, the owner of Salvage Garden, draws himself into full height and smirks down at Malcolm. They’re in his wasteland, operating on his rules.

“No price on it. I’m not selling it to you,” says Paul.

“Then why did you tell me to come back if you weren’t interested in doing business with me?” demands Malcolm. He sticks his hands into his coat pocket, gripping the miniature UV black light. He’s prepared to enact contingencies if Paul’s messing with him.

Paul leads Malcolm to the coveted station wagon. Malcolm checks the license plate. 

Displeasure coils in the back of Malcolm’s throat when he notes the black plastic secured within, obscuring the station wagon’s interior. He glares at his black mirror reflection. Paul clunks a bucket of tools onto the yard.

“When you fix her up, you may drive her off the lot. If you can,” says Paul.

“What,” says Malcolm. “How would I know where to begin?”

“Them’s the terms. Fix the car or get out. You’re welcome to use my tools on-site and you can ask me for the use of power tools and extension cords. You can even bring a helper but your hands are doing the fixing,” says Paul.

“Why? Why wouldn’t you simply take payment?” demands Malcolm.

“I know you have the money. If you double or triple the amount of what I’m owed, your money’s still no good to me. I deal with men. Fix the car or get out. Mondays through Saturdays, nine to seven. You’re not here after 7 o’clock in the evenings.”

“Fine! I will meet your terms, Mr. Lazar.”

“Good. If you don’t mind my asking, why do you want this car so bad?” asks Paul.

“My dad had a station wagon exactly like this one. It’s the car of my dreams,” answers Malcolm. He’s certain the car will bring him to the girl.

Malcolm arrives early on Saturday morning, garbed in his oldest denims, a long sleeved thermal, and a slouchy T-shirt. He’s not happy about the slip resistant boots which he last wore for a manhunt on the Absaroka mountain range. Paul has already towed the station wagon into a roofed garage. The garage is a cozy steel building with one of its heavy-duty aluminum overhead doors raised.

“Hello, Malcolm,” says Paul. “How’s your family?”

“They’re well, thanks.” Malcolm knows that his mother Jessica is having conniptions over Dr. Whitly’s interview slated to air on Christmas Eve.

“You know, I’m being pretty generous. Not like you’re taking on a full restoration project. Your problem’s mechanical, not electrical. Don’t zap yourself,” says Paul, snickering.

"What exactly is wrong with the, uh, mechanics of this vehicle?" says Malcolm.

"You'll get there, Malcolm. But first, you get to work." Paul smiles in cheerless humor.

Paul leaves Malcolm to the station wagon. Not long after, Malcolm hears the ugly grinding of an industrial car compactor.

Even if he were to have the keys, a wheel clamp prevents Malcolm from misappropriating the station wagon. Paul also wrapped the windows with black plastic, blocking vantage points for Malcolm to visually inspect the rear interior of the locked station wagon.

Sighing, Malcolm raises the lid of the hood, root beer licorice clamped between his lips. He takes video and a million pictures of the engine to consult with an actual mechanic. He leaves after Ainsley texts him, stopping to pick up chocolate truffles and pink wine before reaching her apartment. As he suspects, Ainsley’s fallen out with her cameraman boyfriend. She doesn’t say as much, but Malcolm reasons, why else would she drop an impromptu invite for movies on Saturday night?

* * *

The auto mechanic emails him a list of guidelines on how to diagnose engine issues. Malcolm pores over cold cases until Saturday morning. This time, Paul works inside the garage flushing a small motor that would power either a lawnmower or a leaf blower. Malcolm leans towards a leaf blower. Paul has rearranged the garage for his work area, which includes clearing the space around the station wagon and affording Malcolm plenty of room to circle the station wagon. The interior remains obscured because Paul is messing with Malcolm.

“Hi, may I have the key please? I need to run the motor,” says Malcolm. “The fuel’s not too old, is it?”

“It’s safe to start,” confirms Paul.

Paul throws him a ring of keys. Malcolm recoils from their metallic tang and the greased bow of the keys. Malcolm used a keyless remote for his last car, which he stopped leasing when he left Virginia.

Paul is a weird man. While he doesn’t project menace, he’s watching Malcolm instead of working outside. Malcolm guesses that Paul is a middle-aged bachelor who either has never been in a stable relationship or has a pitiable history of infrequent or unsatisfying partnerships. Paul is not conventionally sociable, a tendency exacerbated by business ownership and keeping his own odd hours. He’s likely an only child or estranged from siblings and branch relatives. Given the junkyard’s closure on Sundays, church must be the only society which Paul allows.

Malcolm thinks that Paul must attend religiously, going by the contemporary Christian rock he plays on an ancient entertainment set up with gargantuan wooden speakers, cassette decks, and rabbit ear antennae. Malcolm’s reprieve from the gospel is Paul’s liking for 94.7 FM radio which is formatted to play old hit songs, 80s, and 90s music. But listening to late 90s hits from around the time of his father's arrest is also problematic for Malcolm.

_I will be strong,_  
_I will be faithful_  
_'cause I'm counting_  
_on a new beginning_  
_A reason for living._  
_A deeper meaning._

Malcolm gnashes his teeth and shoves his right fist down his front pants pocket until the tremors abate. His fingers twitch from the invisible film of grease no matter how many times he towels off his hands. He’ll have to cut his nails very short as though he were taking up piano lessons. This is not how he enjoys getting lubed up and bent over.

Malcolm, despite his misgivings, locates a few problems with the station wagon. The engine temperature gauge indicates the station wagon runs too hot. He finds some bubbly milky crud on the oil dipstick he borrows from Paul. Coolant is leaking from the cooling system into the oil pan. Water also pools beneath the exhaust pipe. A sweet odor wafting from the exhaust pipe is another bad sign, if he notices it through the cold rust and the engine oil itching his nose.

Malcolm crinkles his itchy nose like a rabbit. His filthy hands are not fit to scratch his face. He rubs his textured shirt sleeve onto the skin of his nose dried out from cold air exposure. Loose hair tickles the tip of his nose until it’s itching more fiercely. Malcolm sighs dispirited when he catches his reflection in a large round mirror mounted on the garage wall. Somehow, he’s transferred oil onto his cheek. His licorice tastes like gasoline rainbows. He’s also sick of answering the call of nature outside.

He wants to leave in the station wagon and be on his way down memory lane, paved with blood, drugs, and lies.

“Whoa oh oh, heaven let your light shine down!” Paul sings along to Collective Soul, arms raised with an air guitar; he ascends in a flight of fancy where he shreds an axe like Jesse Triplett. 

While Malcolm believes he’s spotted enough problems with the car, he doesn’t trust himself to diagnose what’s wrong. He understands that Paul knows how to fix machines. He understands that Paul is someone who’s been alone for a long time and, for whatever reason, picks on Malcolm.

Paul cleans a small motor when Malcolm swallows his pride and walks to the workbench. Malcolm requests help but then Paul’s motor revs up like ten saws moving at once, roaring over Malcolm's polite verbiage. Paul taps his own ear and cuts the noise.

“Will you help me, Mr. Lazar?” repeats Malcolm, nostrils flaring, both hands on his hips, and a vein standing out on his forehead wrinkled with irritation and sweat.

Paul’s mustache twitches. “Sure. What did you find?”

As Malcolm explains in steps what he’s done so far, Paul stands quietly and listens to Malcolm. His eyes go where Malcolm says.

“Gasket issue. Fix the bolts and apply sealer,” says Paul. He rattles off a list of supplies that Malcolm needs from an auto parts store.

“May I have your phone number, Paul? I want to call you from the store if I forget anything or if the store associates ask me about the car,” says Malcolm.

“Alright. You’re coming straight back or you’re quitting today?”

“I’m coming back,” says Malcolm, needled by the challenge.

Malcolm’s phone rings while he’s in the aisles getting a store associate’s opinion on whether paste, spray, or glue is the best kind of sealer. 

“Sorry. This will be quick,” Malcolm tells the associate. He puts down the jug of coolant to take the call.

“Malcolm, m’boy. Is today the day you take the wheel?” chirps Dr. Whitly.

“Possibly. Do you remember any brand name for gasket sealers that you might’ve used on the station wagon?” asks Malcolm.

“No, can’t say that I do. I used to have a guy poke around under the hood when I had car troubles. Back when I did my rotations at St. Edwards,” says Dr. Whitly.

“Well, I know someone who’s a gear head. I need to talk to them now. Unless you have details to share about the girl,” says Malcolm. At Dr. Whitly’s silence, Malcolm cuts the line. The store associate asks him how many cylinders.

He calls Paul’s mobile to check. The associate rings up his purchases while he’s on the phone with Paul.

“Good. Sounds like you’ve got the nuts and the bolts. You have what you need to finish the job,” says Paul. 

“Yes. Thank you. Oof, these liquids are heavy! On my way now. Will you be there, Paul?”

“I have a special project to work on. I also said I would help you. I mean to see it through,” answers Paul. He eases Malcolm’s worry.

Back in Paul’s garage, Malcolm receives instructions to remove the thermostat, drain the remaining coolant from the cooling system and to disconnect the battery before taking out the aged bolts. Paul also gives him a service manual that’s creased and yellowed but otherwise in very clean condition. 

Paul shows him how to re-align the head gasket with the cylinder head and block. Malcolm picks up the incorrect wrench. Paul fishes out a torque wrench for Malcolm. Malcolm’s new bolts are clean but Paul makes him lube them up before he re-torques the head bolts. Paul’s hand rests on the middle of Malcolm’s back while he tells Malcolm what to do.

“Watch the indicator while you work,” says Paul.

Malcolm’s legs are stiff from standing on concrete. He leans his weight onto the station wagon and his right arm presses into Paul’s left side. Coldplay is on 94.7 FM radio. Electrified organ notes fill the steel garage, magnified like a hymnal in the worship hall.

_When you get what you want but not what you need_  
_When you feel so tired but you can't sleep_  
_Stuck in reverse_

He inexplicably misses his father’s workshop which has long since been walled off. Sitting on his father’s knee and frowning at the multi part questions that he wants to answer correctly. In those days, his father lifts him up for hugs and kisses. Malcolm remembers his father’s deodorant prickling like eucalyptus but also warm like amber, Louisa’s dryer sheets on his father’s clothes, and the honey almond beeswax for hands chapped by antiseptics.

“Malcolm, did you get all that?” asks Paul. He bumps his shoulder against Malcolm’s.

“I copy. Let’s do this,” says Malcolm. He can almost see through the tarp draped over the station wagon. He expects blood when he searches his station wagon.

Malcolm flushes the cooling system and then fills it with water. He leaves space for the sealer according to the product label. Then he turns the key in the ignition and idles the engine. When he’s done pouring the sealer onto the idling engine, Malcolm sets the timer on his phone to 50 minutes.

He meanders over to Paul’s workbench just in time to catch the older man sweet talking on his ancient Sony cell phone.

“Jesus, I forgot. Thank you Gam Gam. I was distracted today but I will take care of it for you. I’ll bring it home to you when I finish. Yes, Gam Gam. Dinner. I wuv you, too,” says Paul.

“How’s _your_ family, Paul?” says Malcolm. He helps himself to a metal stool that weighs as much as the world, budges the stool maybe half an inch, before he plops down and impishly cups his chin on the tabletop.

“Yeah, yeah. Yuck it up,” says Paul. “Business is good. I meet new people. Enjoy the simple things.”

Malcolm reads embarrassment in how Paul wipes down his long beard and tugs down the frizzy gray ends. 

“What do you do? You on Wall Street? Are you a lawyer?” he says abruptly to Malcolm, raising his brows.

“I’m in the business of murder,” answers Malcolm. After a loaded pause, he smiles beatifically. “I consult with law enforcement, doing work for the good guys.”

“You’re not a cop. No way in hell,” says Paul.

“You got me. I have a tricky history. NYPD won’t have me. My actual job is more analytical. I give the cops more stuff to read on top of their caseloads. They love it,” says Malcolm.

“Thank God for that,” says Paul. “My business isn’t exactly on the right side of the tracks. I don’t need a cop sniffing around my packages.”

Paul slides over a small brown box that’s sealed with shipping tape and packed with newsprint. The contents are not what Malcolm expects.

“How very suspicious,” quips Malcolm. His brow arches at the ceramic fairy.

The fairy is a woman painted nude with flesh tones, with long glittering magenta pink hair skimming the mounds of her bare bottom. She cavorts in pagan fashion atop a painted grassy knoll, her sky blue butterfly wings spread out wide and free, tits pointing to heaven.

Malcolm flinches when Paul brings down the mallet. Blue wings disintegrate into fairy dust. The arms and legs and hourglass torso scatter along Paul’s tabletop. Paul dusts off the thick base of the figurine.

“Why would you do that?! Not to my tastes but it looked perfectly fine.”

“I’m redeeming the parts worth saving,” answers Paul.

Paul stresses the cracked ceramic base, splitting it like an egg. Inside is the mechanism of a music box. He winds up the metal disc platform key and Beethoven’s movement chimes, at odds with a bygone radio pop song.

Paul reaches for a dirty ball of fabric on the workbench and unravels the dingy cloth until a pristine angel emerges. The angel has pale blond and wavy hair wreathed with white flowers. A dove sits on a pink ribbon threaded between the angel’s arms and wings. 

“Is this your special project?” inquires Malcolm.

“This music box is the last thing that Gam Gam’s husband gave her. She loves this thing to death.”

Paul uses a pair of jeweler’s screwdrivers and tweezers and the world’s tiniest wire cutters to transfer the new mechanism into the angel music box. He tweezers miniature brass screws into their openings. 

“Here. Hold this for me,” says Paul. Malcolm hovers the magnifying lens of a jewelry loupe over tiny brass pieces. His palm presses the back of Paul’s busy hand.

Malcolm smiles when Paul attaches the round metal platform key and winds it up. The angel circles a slow dance.

“I’m sorry that your grandfather died,” says Malcolm.

“Don’t be. He’s with Jesus. It’s been me and my Gam Gam for the longest time. I’m her everything,” says Paul.

Malcolm’s heart twinges when Paul’s words summon Isaac Parker’s youthful face to the forefront of his mind.

“What’s wrong, Malcolm? You look like you slurped down a bowl of sadness.”

“My mother had to raise us by herself. I mean, yes, we had a nanny, a driver, maids, a fleet of family psychologists, tutors…” Malcolm stops and shakes his head.

“Christ, no wonder you’re allergic to grease,” says Paul. “You haven’t had to do a damn thing for yourself, huh?”

“I beg to differ. I finished school and had a whole career getting into a killer’s head and stopping them,” says Malcolm. He purses his lips. “So yes, my family’s rich but my privileges afford me very specialized skill sets to help the victims. But if you want to write me off as another spoiled rich guy, go right ahead.”

His phone alarm sounds before Paul responds. Malcolm gets to his feet stiffly and retreats to the station wagon. He turns off the engine and pages through the service manual. He needs to install a new thermostat, a simple but messy process which involves a bucket of radiator fluid, clamp, hose, and bolts.

When he picks up the wrench, Paul lays a hand on his shoulder.

“You might want to cool off first,” says Paul.

“I’m not angry,” says Malcolm.

“Didn’t say you were. Engine’s still hot. You need to wait,” says Paul. “If you had a father when you were coming up, you might’ve known that. Your mother had her work cut out for her. I didn’t mean to say that she didn’t.”

“Did your grandfather show you how to repair cars?” asks Malcolm.

“Gam Gam's husband was a mechanic. I spent hours standing in his garage looking stupid. I was good for holding the light or handing over tools. Wouldn’t do what I do now without that crusty old man,” says Paul.

Malcolm’s cold all over when Paul backs off, breaking their connection.

“Lunch time. I take my lunch regularly at the pizza shop on the corner. They do a terrible six cheese pizza. Want in on the action?” says Paul in a conciliatory tone.

Malcolm is a slut for cheese. They wash their hands in a utility sink before Paul lowers the overhead door.

After Paul mutters grace, they’re eating in the pizza shop which has two tables and a fan that only serves to circulate air thick with yeast, garlic, and charred cornmeal.

“A serial killer doesn’t necessarily have to be a victim of familial abuse,” says Malcolm, chowing down. He is not earnestly hungry until his teeth crunch into cheese that's been burned into a proper crisp. 

“What you can count on with any profile, is that the killer has a fantasy life that substitutes genuine connection with another. They’re paying attention as they manage their routines. Alert. Hungry. For satisfaction that involves another real person. When healthy impulses don’t have an outlet, you get deviance. Born killers are an urban legend. A person is born but a killer is made.”

“So Paul, if you get a bunch of bodies in your junkyard then I’m your guy,” says Malcolm.

“Just one busybody after hours,” retorts Paul.

As the person who trespassed on Paul's business, Malcolm smiles in his chagrin. He expects Paul to ask him questions about what he’s doing in the Bronx, unarmed, after dark. He’s disappointed when Paul doesn’t follow up and rectifies that immediately.

“OK, you got me. I shouldn't have been there. I was taking my mind off an investigation that was more intense than what I could handle. There was a child involved,” says Malcolm. “They murdered their father. Conditions for patricide were present. Masculine authorities threatened the fantasy life which they pictured and they lashed out.”

“When the killer’s that young, can’t you say they came out funny?” says Paul.

“Wow. Okay. Once you dehumanize any child, you’ve closed off avenues to pursue for treatment and rehabilitation,” says Malcolm. He puts down his slice and sponges off his chin. 

“When’s the angriest you’ve ever been at your parents? You don’t have to say. But, if you maimed or injured one of your caregivers, you’re labeled a monster and you get locked up. What good does that do when an inmate gets released from an overcrowded prison? If a killer is made, then it’s possible for them to come undone and humanely convert them to non-violence.”

Malcolm sucks down another cheesy bite before Paul unexpectedly divulges a private memory. 

“When I was a teenager, I had a little dog. Old man made me put my dog in the garage and made sure I couldn’t leave my room. Coldest day of the year, negative 2 degrees Fahrenheit," says Paul.

Paul skims his whiskered jaw with the back of his curled fingers. “Old man knew he went too far, but that didn't bring back my best friend after the fact.”

“What did you do, Paul?”

“I cried my head off. What do you think I did? I put my dog in the bed and hid under my blanket until Gam Gam found us.”

Before Malcolm offers his condolences or re-thinks how trite his words would sound, Paul drops his uneaten portion onto his paper plate and dumps it in the trash can.

“Do you have a picture of your puppy?” asks Malcolm. They’re in the garage with the station wagon.

Paul takes out his slim bi-fold wallet. The top edge of the photo curls from damage. White creases scratch out the grinning child’s face, but a small chocolate brown dog cuddles beneath the boy’s chin, frozen in happy times, as they share a knitted blanket with wavy zigzag lines of pink, mint, and white. Paul bares the photo for Malcolm to see.

“Beautiful shine to their coat,” says Malcolm.

“Yeah but so dumb,” says Paul, with pride and wistful affection. "He was a good boy; you couldn't have asked for better." 

Malcolm doesn’t try to touch the photo. He goes for Paul’s sleeve and squeezes the man's arm before he cracks open the service manual. Paul asks Malcolm what he thinks he’s doing before he shows Malcolm how to scrape off the old gasket for the thermostat.

Malcolm bites back a smile when Paul stands close to him and stops just short of doing the job for him. Malcolm whose height is 5’ 5” realizes in extended proximity that Paul stands four inches taller. Malcolm aligns a new gasket before he positions the new thermostat spring side down and secures the bolts with a wrench. Paul’s just there, quiet except to steer Malcolm away from compounded mistakes. Malcolm breathes easier after he screws down the hose clamp, twisting the screwdriver clockwise.

“Not too tight,” says Paul. “You don’t want your screws to cut into the hose. Now pour the liquid in your bucket back into the radiator fill hole. There!”

“Thanks, Paul. Can I have the--”

Paul has the bottle of new coolant ready. Their fingers brush as Paul hands it off. Paul checks how Malcolm connects the car battery. Malcolm excitedly shuts the lid of the hood and wipes lube from his hands which rubbed off from the bolts. The spark of self-sufficiency catches and he’s pleased with himself. He rips down the trash bags duct taped to the windows, eager to check the interior for human blood.

Paul gives him directions before Malcolm drives them to an auto licensing center to transfer the car title. Then Paul passes him the key to the station wagon for good. Malcolm drives into the junkyard to drop off Paul. He stays in the driver’s seat while Paul clambers out and says a few words in parting.

“I’m sorry to see the station wagon go, but at least I know it’s passed along to someone who can take care of her."

“Why did you keep it for so long?” says Malcolm. He senses the moment is ripe for answers.

“Bought it from old folks whose kids left home. The Mister was ready to drive a humdinger. It’s a great utility vehicle. Roomy and easy to fix. Friend of mine borrowed it when he went camping with his family.” Paul shifts on his feet.

Before Paul says another word, Malcolm’s skin prickles all over and his hair raises as though an electric current thrums between them.

“My friend didn’t want the hassle of parking a clunker in the Upper East Side. Later he got arrested for murder but by that point we were on the outs.”

“Murder,” says Malcolm. 

Malcolm examines Paul's features. His skin tone would be a warmer beige if he ventured more into the sun. Much of his face is cloaked by a black winter hat and his beard which extends up to his ears. His mustache and the whiskers on the angles of his jaw grow mainly black while dull gray tufts hang beneath his lips, about an inch and a half in length. His coarse gray eyebrows are thinly shaped. Two permanent creases bracket the bridge of his nose. Gray hairs curl like graphite shavings beneath the outer edges of his eyes, touching sunken lines etched by age and poor sleep. Paul's forehead hangs in slight prominence over his close set, brown, and humorless eyes.

“The last time I saw Martin Whitly, he chucked me into a river and left me for dead. Godspeed, little Malcolm. Don’t come back.”

Paul taps the roof of the station wagon a couple times before he retreats like an ascetic hermit into secret ruins. 

Malcolm stows the station wagon in a parking garage which is a reasonable walk from his loft. He spritzes the station wagon's interior with Luminol and hydrogen peroxide, but the fluorescent discovery of smeared fluids doesn’t fuel Malcolm. Not like when he met an old family friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (long winded) Birthday, KateSamantha!! xoxo
> 
> This fic owes its existence to KateSamantha's love for murder husbands. 
> 
> I present to you: John Watkins, in control of his mission without the NYPD in his business. I hope it's fun for you guys in the know while Malcolm feels this man out. Wheee!
> 
> Canon note: John's dog is not canon.
> 
> Fanon note: I wrestled with including pet negligence in John's origin story. Fic will not devolve into animal abuse/negligence.
> 
> Footnote: That dog was a good boy. John not bullshitting.


	2. Hemorrhage (In My Hands)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> less fighty more flirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-murder fluff. You don't just pleasure kill on the first date.

The station wagon is just a car without a body or a crime scene but Malcolm’s determination knows no radius or statute of limitations. Malcolm notes where the interior glows from the Luminol and methodically swabs each area for repeat Kastle-Meyer tests. Every cotton tip soaked in clear phenolphthalein solution changes pink when he adds drops of hydrogen peroxide, confirming traces of blood in each swab. 

He compulsively purchases commercially available immunochromatographic strip tests to confirm that the blood is human. Two out of two dozen test strips test positive for human blood. The overwhelming majority of the strips suggest animal blood. Malcolm sighs in defeat and removes the gray beanie cap he wears to keep his hair from shedding all over a vehicle that may or may not be a murder wagon.

“Damn it,” he mutters, punching the lowered tailgate. His shins ache from crouching on all fours to run his tests. Malcolm’s eyes land on the pair of steel anchor brackets and his resolve firms up all over again. He did not bruise his leg on the stupid metal anchors for nothing. He will not give up.

He removes the proverbial kid gloves and mounts a vigorous search. Malcolm finds the switchblade hidden in a crack in the center console. When he claims the switchblade from the station wagon, he feels himself reaching through the temporal barriers of his mind to obtain an important clue to his past. But every treasure exacts its price. 

The Buick’s radio is set on station 94.7 FM, breaking away from their usual format to play unplugged classic songs. The acoustic echo of Dylan’s folksy styling pull his mind to the wonder years and Malcolm tenses, his legs cramping and stomach twisting until suffering pinches his face. His father’s hands smack the steering wheel in timeless beats. When Martin turns around in the driver’s seat, the sunbeams and silhouettes of passing evergreens illuminate the proud love which he shows to Malcolm.

_Hey! Mr. Tambourine man,_  
_play a song for me_  
_I'm not sleepy and_  
_there is no place I'm going to_  
_In the jingle jangle morning_  
_I'll come following you_  
_Take me on a trip_  
_upon your magic swirling ship_  
_My senses have been stripped_  
_My hands can't feel to grip_

Musical chords from guitar strings distort inside his skull packed with cotton. The air inside the station wagon drips thickly with a sweet odor like antifreeze. He recognizes the chloroform. His right hand clutches the switchblade as he faints in the cargo area. Metal cuffs and chains hold him fast to the steel anchors. 

Malcolm screams when the panels of the station wagon implode as though punched flat by the fist of God. Glass shards sting his face and shred his throat. Steel frames crumple, trapping Malcolm in his cold casket. Malcolm will not make it out before he becomes smaller than he already is.

The sky remains dark when Malcolm turns over in his bed. The noise of a lawnmower disturbs his rest, an impossibility in Soho. His restraints clink and he cannot stand to be chained, even for his own safety. He scuttles quickly out of bed and sends the objects on his nightstand clattering to the floor. Malcolm mindlessly picks up his phone and his wristwatch but his hand trembles as he reaches for the switchblade still spinning on its rounded hilt. The longer the knife rotates on its hilt without slowing, the more of his sanity crumbles. 

He laughs nervously after he pokes the switchblade and it stops moving. Malcolm’s laugh cuts short when he detects movement within his loft. He opens the switchblade and remains statue still while an assailant in all black comes at him like the wind. Malcolm can’t see the intruder’s face. 

The intruder grips him up with a man’s strength and Malcolm plunges in the knife, stabbing into their left side. He hears fabric ripping and when he pulls back, Malcolm comes away with a damp clump of straw. He clenches his fist around the crackling straw, squeezing until he draws warm blood. He smells blood; can feel it thick on his hand. The straw man shoves him into bed.

Malcolm awakens for the final time, short of breath and slick with sweat which gleams in the clear light of day. He jerks his face to where the switchblade innocuously rests on his nightstand, but he is not assured. The sensation of dropping an item haunts him even after he searches around his bed.

* * *

“Malcolm!” says Gabrielle. Her snapping fingers startle Malcolm whose eyes lapse into slow blinks.

Malcolm breathes a swear. He doesn’t remember leaving his body, much less his loft. He drums his fingers because he wants root beer flavored lollipops. 

“Pardon me. I haven’t been working any overtime lately. Relaxation doesn’t motivate me to curb my wandering focus,” says Malcolm.

“Are you relaxed, Malcolm?’ asks Gabrielle. She pauses as Malcolm takes mental inventory of himself.

Malcolm is on the edge of his seat, thighs clamped together, hands squeezing his knees. He adjusts his posture until he sits with his shoulders poised, back straight, and both heels flat on the carpet.

“Why don’t you try normal while your work has slowed down? You hit the pavement running, kiddo. You’re gonna fry if you don’t slow your roll,” suggests Gabrielle. “Hang out, get out of your head, go on a date, etc.”

He bumps into Eve before Gil calls him to work a homicide. Gabrielle’s suggestion tumbles from his mouth. By the time Malcolm walks Eve to her train, they have a date.

Malcolm realizes belatedly that he unnecessarily complicates his first date with Eve. He skips treating Eve to a lovely dinner reservation and drags her into another couple’s night off. Eve gamely hangs out with Malcolm’s work friend JT Tarmel and his wife Tally. Eve is the angel wearing a new dress while Malcolm is the asshole in a $10,000 suit conjecturing on Eve’s painful family history aloud. When Eve tearfully ditches him at Amsterdam Billiards, Malcolm is twice the asshole for ruining his date night and possibly killing the pool hall for the Tarmels.

Malcolm decides to end the night with pizza. He wants Bronx pizza from a corner business not far from a junkyard. If the late night indulgence leads to heartburn, he deserves it. Malcolm sits at one of two tables in the pizza parlor wearing his tailored suit while his Movado wristwatch ticks down twenty minutes.

A Muslim family owns the pizza parlor. The older woman minding the till nags at the young man who carries an empty hotbag. She waves multiple stubs in his face while he picks up delivery orders.

“Why are you late, Fida?” she demands. Malcolm pegs her as the mom.

“Miss Uzma, how ya do? Hey FiFi. Busy night?!!”

He recognizes Paul and hears how much more friendlier and relaxed the man is to people who are not Malcolm.

“Pauly!” says Fida, the delivery guy. He waves at their regular customer. “Busy and getting busier for me. I popped one of the wheels on the van. Might have to zoom around in my car and my girlfriend’s going to complain about wanting pizza every time I pick her up.”

“Give me twenty minutes to change out your tire and you can go on business as usual,” offers Paul.

The young delivery man gives thanks while his mom starts on Paul’s order.

Someone kicks Malcolm’s table while he texts Eve. Malcolm swallows before he meets Paul’s smirk with a blank smile.

“Fancy running into you here,” says Paul.

“Gotta support local business,” says Malcolm.

“You’re not local,” says Paul, eyeing the decorative silk pocket square tucked in Malcolm’s suit, Malcolm’s platinum cuff links, and the diamond watch. “You walk around dressed like that, you’re asking for it.”

“I was out on a nice normal date before I ruined it. I thought really great pizza would save tonight. Just here for a slice, Paul. Surely you can’t begrudge me that,” says Malcolm. He checks his phone and Eve does not text back.

Paul smirks and he raps on the small round table. “You think you can stand around and feel sorry for yourself? My buddy has a flat tire and the Giants suck. Help us out.”

The delivery guy did flatten the van’s rear curbside tire. Paul walks to his junkyard and returns in a Chevy loaded with equipment. Paul gets down and dirty to wedge the front wheels with chocks and to secure the jack lift with a pair of heavy duty jack stands while Malcolm holds the emergency flashlight. Paul sets the hubcap concave side up on the asphalt; he removes the lug nuts which plink inside the hubcap. 

Paul changes out the tire and checks the air pressure of each tire by the time the delivery guy comes to the van with a loaded hotbag. They don’t shake hands but the delivery guy lightly elbows Paul before leaving.

The mom waves off Paul’s dollars which Malcolm expects. However, he feels wrong footed when he’s also told to put away his wallet. She assumes that Malcolm is Paul’s friend.

“Your money’s no good here either,” says Paul, his tone lightened by amusement. “But your company’s not bad. Come on and let’s go. Unless you wanted to cry alone over your pizza?”

“Yeah, okay,” says Malcolm, perking up despite Paul’s teasing. He carries their food after Paul stows tools in his vehicle. Paul leaves the Chevy where he parks it and they walk to his garage together.

Sausage, bacon, and ham toppings pile onto the deep dish pizza crust, glued down by provolone, mozzarella, and pecorino romano. What catches Malcolm off guard are the honking large gallon glass jugs that Paul stores in the cool of his garage.

“The Boro Greenmarket is where I pick up my barrel of apples in late June. I let the palm sugar, the yeasty boys, and apples hang out for half the year or until I can’t stand babysitting them anymore.”

“You can have two glasses. Won’t get you to the promised land but hey it’s a free buzz.” Paul fills one tall glass for Malcolm as well as one large soup mug for himself.

“Lord, thank you,” says Paul before his first piping hot bite.

Malcolm burns the roof of his mouth immediately on the pizza but waits for Paul to go first and swig his beverage.

“What’s wrong, boyo? You don’t trust me?” asks Paul, amused.

“I don’t trust,” says Malcolm. His serious expression gives way to pleasant surprise when the cider fizzes on his slightly blistered palate.

“Aren’t you Christian? Or are you stocking up all that applejack for the troops?” says Malcolm. 

Paul snorts. “I don’t run after my drink early in the morning nor do I stay up late boozing. And never am I ever cruising and boozing.”

Malcolm raises his glass and Paul gamely clinks his mug.

“You do know that you’re interrupting my work tonight,” says Paul after drinking and chewing. His empty mug thunks the bare tabletop of his workbench.

Malcolm purses his lips, the corners of his mouth twitching, when Paul refills the mug and tells him: “I hate interruptions. I’ve killed for less than that, Malcolm.”

“Have you?” Malcolm says. He drinks from his glass.

“It’s an expression. How do you like my cider?” says Paul. 

“This is really good cider,” says Malcolm. He’s not convinced that Paul is an entirely innocent man.

“So you do like them apples,” says Paul.

“The apples are very good. What variety do you use in your fermentation process?” asks Malcolm.

“They’re Jonathans. Johnny apples. My personal signature,” says Paul.

Paul finishes his pizza. While he has a Ford truck cracked open for its bits, Paul leaves more floor space available than when Malcolm previously impinged on his business.

Paul shuffles to a wall and pulls down a white sheet from a flat 10 x 40 inch wood board vertically supported by upright beams and stabilized by leg boards. The entire apparatus is seven foot high. Paul turns the wood board until chipped target circles face Malcolm.

Malcolm gives up on choking down lukewarm pizza crust in favor of the canvas tote which Paul lugs onto his workbench near the balled up white sheet. Malcolm is more delighted than he should be when Paul draws an axe.

“Wanna take a stab at it?” offers Paul.

“Hell yes! Allow me to wash my hands. I will not grease the handle with pecorino romano!” exclaims Malcolm. He peels off his tailored slate gray suit jacket and tucks his slim tie into his waistcoat before he rolls his white shirt sleeves to his elbows. Malcolm rotates his shoulders and neck; he stretches his arms and back.

They start at 12 feet of distance from the stationary target board to limber up. Then they playfully compete from a 15 foot distance. Paul is infuriatingly better than Malcolm. Paul flips his axe as though it were an extension of his physicality. 

Malcolm’s not pouting for too long. Paul surprises him with a hollowed out log round. Malcolm has never had as much fun as he does when they take turns pushing off the log round and hustling out of the warpath while either one of them throws a straight spinner into the rolling target. His neck flushes hot and his hair tickles his eyelid when Malcolm crouches down to unstick the axe from the log, hand gripping rough bark as he leaves pine chips on the cement.

Paul shoves his hat into the back pocket of his jeans and he discards his navy hoodie, wearing an army green crew neck long sleeve. His dark gray hair is plastered flat, out of the way of his long and broad forehead and large temples.

Malcolm taps out after his last throw sends the axe beneath the stationary target board, blade dinging the cement and echoing his failure. Malcolm’s bubbly when he’s halfway into his second glass of cider. He spreads the white sheet on the edge of the wooden tabletop and perches to heckle Paul over the radio sounds. 

Paul approaches the axe stuck into the target board but when he can’t leverage it at one go, his arm waves at the handle as if to say, “Fugget about it.”

Malcolm wriggles aside on the workbench, not realizing when he knocks Paul’s empty mug onto its side; the handle keeps it from shattering on the floor. Paul shoves it to a less precarious spot.

“You’re fine. Keep your behind where it is,” says Paul. His fingers curl around the bottom of Malcolm’s tipped glass.

“Heyyy…” A noise of protest pours from Malcolm’s lips, as does the cider down his scruffy chin.

“Hay is for horses,” says Paul. He tugs on the glass but Malcolm does not surrender. Paul’s legs press into the tabletop and Malcolm pulls the drink glass more insistently as he spreads his bent legs, planting the soles of his polished wingtips onto the metal struts of the workbench.

“Paul, give,” says Malcolm, licking his damp lips.

Paul steps into Malcolm’s knee and pats the brown hair no longer impeccably sculpted with pomade.

“Be a good boy and let me have it,” says Paul.

Malcolm relinquishes his beverage, frowning when Paul steals the rest of it right in Malcolm’s face, bursting his bubble. Malcolm glimpses the profile of Paul’s square hairline, his long forehead, gray curls on his nape and his throat bulging with each swallow beneath coarse whiskers whitened in the fluorescent garage lights. 

Paul’s right sleeve brushes Malcolm’s left forearm, warm and soft, and catches on the dial of his wristwatch. Glass thuds hollowly on the tabletop. The smells of rust, chemical solvent, and sawdust fall away to muted notes of fabric softener, cool body wash, and baby oil. Melody and static crackle in the space they inhabit.

_Memories are just where you laid them_  
_Drag the waters_  
_till the depths give up their dead_  
_What did you expect to find_  
_Was there something you left behind_  
_Don't you remember_

Paul touches Malcolm’s ear, fingers tucking back Malcolm’s chestnut strands tacky with sweat. Malcolm tastes fruit that’s become what it’s meant to be; potent in maturity. He’s on the verge of hurling himself forward, even if it means off a precipice, right into the source of every answer he needs to know.

Paul reaches around Malcolm when the iPhone buzzes along the grunge wooden surface with an incoming call from Eve. Malcolm accepts his phone with thanks and reluctantly tables his curious questions. Opportunity fizzles out like cider that sits out in the open for too long. 

Paul snickers upon hearing the girl’s voice. Malcolm gets two sympathetic pats on his knee. 

“Hi, thank God you called! I’m so, so sorry. Are you alright? I shouldn't have let you go earlier,” Malcolm says, sliding onto his heels and suiting up as he prepares to exit. He calls a taxi company for a cab to shuttle him from the Bronx to Soho before Eve arrives in forty minutes.

The cider rushes up his neck. His fingers grip the workbench. The worn and semi-spongy wood ends cushion his clammy palms. 

“Thanks for dinner, Paul! We should hang again,” blurts Malcolm. 

“Am I the only place that you've left to go? I don’t think so,” says Paul, tugging on his hat and hoodie. “In my humble opinion, when you get a late night call, just go to bed. But who am I?”

Malcolm turns when he leaves via the overhead door. Paul extends himself to manually roll down the aluminum panels. His shirt rides up his belly and he pulls his shirt tail into his belt. His hands wave Malcolm away before the gates shut with finality. The yellow chariot awaits.

With the bite of apple in the back of his throat, he takes Eve into his arms. For a moment, Malcolm leaves behind Salvage Garden on Kidron and 175th. Malcolm empties into the condom, gasping and clenching when Eve’s lubed fingers slither inside his hole. They fall bonelessly from the leather couch onto his hand knotted silk rug. Eve dozes from wine and sex. Malcolm cups the cool skin of her breast and he weighs its firmness in his palm. While he doesn’t expect her implants, he admires the cosmetic surgeon’s artistry. 

Thirst keeps him up. Eve rolls over and curls up in the absence of a warm body when Malcolm rises to hydrate. He smiles fondly at her before tossing the couch blanket over her nude form. Malcolm pulls on his briefs and sits at the kitchen island, drinking water so cold that it hurts his teeth.

He plans to apologize to Eve in the morning for not offering to share his bed. Malcolm straps down one cuff in bed before the noise of a weed whacker rumbles between his ears. He hears the faint crinkle of paper or dry straw coming closer. The switchblade skitters on his nightstand as Malcolm gropes for it. He forgets about his leather cuff and he feels as though something grips his wrist. He hollers, slashing the darkness with the switchblade, aiming where he glimpses movement and flashes of yellow straw.

“Get away! Stay back! I’ll shred you!” cries Malcolm, both entreating and threatening in his panic.

“Malcolm, oh my God! It’s me! It’s your nightmare! Wake up! Wake up!” screams Eve. Streetlights from Malcolm’s half-moon window reveal her glossy blonde waves before Eve abruptly tumbles in her haste to evade Malcolm’s frantic knife. Her body thumps backwards along the platform steps to his bed. 

The switchblade sinks into his bedding where he drops it and clutches his head. Eve buttons up her coat and flees with her dress and heels slinging in hand. Malcolm’s door slams before he’s done apologizing; palms bashing the disturbed sockets of his eyes. There is no straw man. The only monster present is Malcolm himself.

* * *

Malcolm is approved as a vetted permanent visitor for one Isaac Parker at Gardner Psychiatric in Staten Island. On Saturdays, the traffic is not as terrible. In addition to tolls, Malcolm has hell to pay once he’s driving through Greenbelt. Malcolm’s GPS loses signal and he is lost in between Great Kills Park and Freshkills Park, and has to turn around on Arthur Kill. A bastard with antlers hits the station wagon slowing at 30 mph while the phone GPS re-routes. While Malcolm doesn’t condone illegal hunting, he believes the deer are roadside terrorists.

He doesn’t bother calling Crystal Parker when he finally arrives. Visitors aren’t allowed cell phones in common areas of the behavioral unit. Malcolm clips the dated visitors badge to the lapel of his knit black sweater. He pockets his photo ID which he will display one more time before leaving to reclaim his car keys from the reception desk. Visitors may see patients in a common area; only staff are authorized to access patients’ rooms.

Crystal Parker manages a terse smile when staff escort Malcolm through locked doors; four doors stand between Isaac and the world. Malcolm would bring a nicely wrapped gift but staff would take it apart until his gift is as broken as the promises he made to Isaac. The Parkers sit in lounge chairs at a large table, sharing it with a lone teenage girl whose lips move as though she’s reading the wood grains.

“Hey Isaac. You didn’t think I forgot you, did you?” says Malcolm when Isaac’s brows lift. Malcolm tries humor aimed towards himself. 

“Hi, Bright. No, you remember me. What I did,” says Isaac. Isaac’s hand covers the back of his pale neck, stressed from the loss of his long blond hair.

“Isaac, sweetie. He’s here because he wants to be,” says Crystal. Wet wipe in hand, she scrubs at a random spot on the table.

“Your mom’s right, Isaac. I want to stop by and check in with you guys. I have some experience on what you’re going through,” assures Malcolm.

“What’s wrong with you that you want to visit?” says Isaac. All around them are children and teenagers with a visiting parent or grandparent, without any smartphones or tablets. The children young enough for soft toys and large softcover picture books sit quietly with their little wet faces.

Malcolm looks to Crystal, waiting to see if she goes along with what they discussed over the phone.

“Go ahead. It might help him to hear you out, Mr. Bright,” says Crystal, hanging on every word.

“My father pleaded insanity on multiple murders and won. Instead of going to federal prison, he’s serving life in a hospital for the criminally insane. I haven’t stabbed anyone, but this isn’t my first time in a psych ward. All this?” Malcolm waves his hands. “Old hat to me. At any point, work stress or family issues could land me here as a patient. I can too easily be sitting where you are. If or when I do, would you be the friend who checks in, like what I’m doing for you?”

“No,” says Isaac. “I never want to come back ever again, not for anyone.”

Malcolm smiles when Crystal chastises Isaac for his truthful answer. Malcolm lets Isaac see the pain which he genuinely feels from rejection. He sees Isaac’s desire to hurt him, to hurt anyone.

“It’s fine, Mrs. Parker. I can take it,” says Malcolm. He wets his lips. “I’m the one who put you here, Isaac. You were going to let your mom confess to your murder.”

“Fuck you, Bright,” says Isaac over his mom’s objections. His right hand curls into a fist, but he doesn’t smack the table which would get him in trouble with unit staff. Isaac’s wrist bends, the soft of his hand subtly pressing the table, and Malcolm can tell he’s living that euphoric moment of sinking in the knife.

“You said everything would be okay. I would be okay if it weren’t for you. I’m not okay because of you!” says Isaac. “Mom and I would be at home right now.”

Isaac cannot resist Malcolm’s guilt and the pain deeping the lines around his mouth. Isaac sits up with renewed energies, leaning in closer for the kill. “You promised me that things would work out. You lied to me before you ruined everything.”

“Honey, it was over when I tampered with the investigation. The cops caught me with your sweatshirt,” says Crystal. 

Isaac shakes off her placating touch. She cannot stop him when he smells blood. “You have nothing better to do. I hate you, Bright! 

“That’s enough. Say goodbye, Mr. Bright,” says Crystal. 

“What do you want, Isaac? I will leave, but I’ll be back after Thanksgiving. You can say no anytime you want me gone.” Malcolm bites his tongue before he makes it a promise. He pities Isaac. He can only imagine the burden which Isaac bears daily after stabbing someone with a knife and deadly intent.

Isaac withdraws into silence. 

He leaves Gardner Psychiatric when Crystal insists; her face tight with fear that Malcolm might ask her to return the money he gave her because of how Isaac insults Malcolm without understanding the consequences.

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying. They put him on Depakote when he did not respond to weekly group therapy. He’s really hostile to orderlies who are men. I’m the only other person he’s in regular contact with. He’s not ready to be around the other kids,” says Crystal. She walks him as far as security.

Malcolm makes a noise of acknowledgment. “Sour stomach, sour mood. You know, I liked applesauce with my mood stabilizers. But Isaac seems more like a chocolate pudding type,” says Malcolm. ”I’ll be back, Mrs. Parker. Don’t worry about me.”

“What’re you gonna do about it when I fuss? I’m a mom.”

He thinks of his mother Jessica when Crystal Parker cautiously hugs herself, gratitude like a pinprick of light, from the kindness which Malcolm offers to their family. It heals him where Isaac’s words hit.

* * *

Malcolm keeps his word and visits Isaac for the second time after Thanksgiving, in mid-December. 

Crystal runs to the bathroom after her coffee. While they’re alone, Malcolm asks Isaac: “Those two rabbits of yours. Jeffrey and Edmund? Do they have last names?"

Isaac smiles slyly. "Dahmer and Kemper."

Malcolm returns the smile and they drop the subject when Crystal returns with playing cards.

He feels good afterwards and starts thinking about buying Christmas gifts while he’s on the road. Temperatures are in the 20s when Malcolm drives beneath beautifully frosted trees. 

When deer leap across the street, Malcolm swerves right into black ice and spins out, burning rubber and screeching his brakes. By a miracle of God, Malcolm doesn’t pretzel the station wagon into a tree. He is thirty minutes from Manhattan and breathing through his mouth when he texts Gil: <<Call me.>>

He doesn’t have Xanax with him. All he can do is breathe and count his pattern of four-in-hold-one-four-out. When the invisible clamp on his chest eases up, Malcolm shuts off his music. Closing his eyes makes it worse. Malcolm gets out of the station wagon and lifts the hood. He focuses on the objects in front of him.

Then his even breaths puff cloudy in the frigid temperatures. He's good to go home.

Malcolm buckles up and turns the key. He shifts into drive and steps on the pedal. The tachometer sticks on 0 RPMs. He can’t turn the wheel. Malcolm face plants on the steering wheel. He may be good to go, but the car is not.

When Gil doesn't call back, Malcolm's paranoia ratchets up because he needs to be home as soon as possible. He falls back into mouth breathing when he taps the screen to initiate a phone call. He's not calling his mother; doesn't want to explain that he's visiting not one, but two killers. Gil knows; reaching for Gil in itself relieves Malcolm.

"Hey! I'm stuck on Greenbelt and there's suicidal deer and can you come get me asap?" pleads Malcolm.

"Malcolm?"

The air hisses from his lungs. He gulps. It's not Gil.

"W-wrong number," says Malcolm, hanging up.

Paul calls him back; he picks up on the fourth ring.

"Where are you, Malcolm?" says Paul.

Malcolm tells him what happened. 

“Your engine’s probably stalled. Wait fifteen and then re-start your car. I’ll be there in thirty,” says Paul.

“It’s not necessary for you to come out,” says Malcolm, stomach tightening. “I’ll re-start the car.”

“And if it’s worse than stalled? You might not be so lucky. It’s a cold night,” says Paul. “Wouldn’t want you to freeze, Malcolm.”

When Malcolm hesitates, Paul makes the final call. “You better be where you say you are. I’m out the door.”

While he waits, Malcolm gets a call from Gil.

“You okay, kid? Where are you?” asks Gil.

“It’s fine. I’ve got someone picking me up,” says Malcolm. “Really, I’m good.”

“How did your visit with the boy go? It can’t have been easy.”

“Better. It went better. We played card games and had snacks. Well, the Parkers ate snacks,” answers Malcolm. “And no, the visit is not what triggered me. I almost massacred some deer and had a spinout.”

Gil has been keeping close tabs on him since bringing Isaac Parker into custody. Shivering in the cold station wagon, Gil’s concern tempts Malcolm to tell him what he’s done. However, Gil will not support him re-visiting his past with an old family friend. 

A large vehicle, a Chevy pulls up, headlights shining in his rearview because sundown is 4:37 PM EDT. He leaves the station wagon when Paul hops out.

“Driver’s here,” says Malcolm. He lets Gil assume it’s the family chauffeur.

“Text me when you’re home. Don’t make me track you down, Bright. Next time you’re getting chipped,” says Gil.

“Sir, yes, sir,” says Malcolm, smiling before Gil cuts the line.

“Boyfriend?” asks Paul. He wears a thick coat over his faded coveralls.

"It's my boss. He's not like that," says Malcolm, ducking his head. His tongue flicks over his lips before he bites down to shut his mouth. He answers more honestly than he means to after talking to Gil.

Paul opens the driver’s door and starts the engine before shutting it off again. He looks at the skid marks on the asphalt. “Did you hit anything? Or did the deer hit you?”

“I didn’t crash but the car wouldn’t move when I put it in drive and accelerated,” says Malcolm, his teeth chattering. “As for the deer, they went that a way.”

“Go kick it in my truck. There’s a blanket and I’ve got the heat running,” says Paul. He pulls an engine tachometer from his coverall and points at his truck.

Malcolm huddles inside the Chevy. He’s in his coat but the panic attack leaves him susceptible to frigid temperatures. As another shiver runs up his spine, Malcolm reluctantly takes the cheap blue blanket printed with cartoon Boston terrier puppies. It smells like fabric softener and pine wood. 

Paul moves back and forth between the two vehicles. He immobilizes the rear wheels of the station wagon with wheel chocks. Paul bends over to adjust the driver’s seat before he gets into the station wagon. He leaves the door half open as he guns the engine.

Malcolm pulls down the Chevy’s passenger side sun visor, sighing at his sheet white skin and lips in the little mirror. As he slowly pushes up the visor, two black hands curl around Malcolm’s throat from behind, long nails dragging over his Adam’s apple. Malcolm lunges forward and twists his upper body around, blinking at nothing.

“Fluid levels, coolant temps, that biz checks out. Even though your engine stalled, it’s not your torque converter. The wagon’s fine. You should get your tires rotated and change your brake pads. When you press your brake pedal, you’re going to feel it pulsating. That means new brake pads,” says Paul, joining Malcolm in the Chevy. Malcolm rubs at his eye, the teardrops hidden by his shaking fingers.

“Your wagon’s ready to go, but you, on the other hand, don’t look so good,” says Paul. His eyes assess Malcolm’s pallor and Malcolm’s controlled deep breathing.

“Can you drop me off at home?” requests Malcolm. Now that he’s out of the station wagon, he can’t make himself go back. He needs to hole up in his loft with Xanax and chamomile tea.

“Sure thing. What’s your address?” asks Paul.

Malcolm gives him the location of his loft before slumping forward, his forehead on the dash. He’s vaguely aware of Paul’s hand bracing his left shoulder and rubbing his upper back. Malcolm’s senses narrow to his brown leather shoes, warmth and pine, and music from Paul’s CD player.

_Yeah how long must you pay for it?_  
_Yeah how long must you wait for it?_  
_Sing it, please, please, please_  
_Come back and sing to me_

* * *

Paul leaves him a voicemail about his station wagon, specifically to come and get it. Malcolm calls back immediately, mostly with disbelief, to verify that Paul towed the station wagon all the way to the Bronx.

The timing works for Malcolm. He brings a red and white box with him; it’s heavy on his lap during the taxi ride. The box is tucked inside a metallic red gift bag but he keeps it close to preserve the contents. Malcolm calls Paul upon arrival.

“Hey Malcolm,” says Paul, approaching him on the perimeter of his business. Paul wears a long black wool coat, black trousers, and shiny black shoes. His hands are pink from a thorough scrub. His beard is trimmed; the gray ends are gone.

“Hi Paul. Are things okay? Did someone pass away?” asks Malcolm. He’s pretty sure someone died.

Paul rolls his eyes. “Morning services let out. You think I would show up on Sundays looking like a bum? C’mon, your car is on Kidron. Since you took your sweet time asking for it back, I went ahead and put in new brake pads. You don’t have to worry about your wheels either.”

“Oh my God, really?” says Malcolm. His grip tightens on the glittering red strings of the gift bag.

“No, fakely,” retorts Paul. “Whatchu got there?”

“Um. This was your Christmas gift but I can exchange it for a better one. You did my tires!” Malcolm says. He shuffles the gift bag behind himself out of Paul’s view. He looks for the street sign indicating Kidron but Paul blocks his path.

“Hey, no backing out. What did you get me?” demands Paul. The gift bag tears but he victoriously wrests it from Malcolm.

Feelings of inadequacy overwhelm Malcolm. He catches his breath when the empty gift bag flops onto the sidewalk. Paul holds up the red and white box tied together with a silken white ribbon. 

“Lover’s Gift Box,” reads Paul, his brows disappearing into his knit winter hat.

“It’s not what you think,” says Malcolm, laughing. Malcolm tugs aside the floofy white bow, revealing the rest of the label: “Cheese & Sausage Lover’s Gift Box.”

“Uh uh. Paws off the merch,” says Paul, smacking away Malcolm’s gloved hand. He completely pulls off the ribbon and raises the flapped cardboard lid. Straw tumbles out of the box. The gourmet set includes one 10 oz spicy beef sausage, two 10 oz signature recipe beef sausages, various cheese blocks, and one soft cheddar and onion blend.

Paul closes the box and puts it inside the torn gift bag. The ribbon hangs out of the bag. Paul doesn’t smile but he accepts the goodies. That’s enough for Malcolm.

Malcolm spots the wood panel of the station wagon. He has his car keys and suspects that Paul hotwired the station wagon. Before he lifts the door handle, Paul puts his hand on the frame of the driver’s side.

“What happened to you, Malcolm? I didn't push when you had your breakdown,” says Paul.

“You know I carry so much guilt for how many lives Dr. Whitly took,” says Malcolm, his voice strained.

“You wanna talk about it over lunch? I’m famished,” says Paul.

“Yes, that works. If you don’t mind non-pizza options,” says Malcolm.

“Grub is grub. I can eat anything,” replies Paul. “Let me put away my things.”

Paul leaves the gift bag in his locked garage. Malcolm drives them to a parking garage in Soho. Paul strides alongside him as Malcolm enters a hotel lobby and steers them to the dining area. The place is packed due to the holidays and the late morning time. However, Malcolm’s reserved table awaits. 

When Paul removes his coat, he’s wearing a denim button-up shirt. His dark rust colored necktie hangs over the shirt tucked into his polished brown belt. He’s dressed more formally than Malcolm who wears a dark gray sweater and slim cut navy jeans.

“I’ll take the suckling pig confit with asparagus. And a garden salad,” Malcolm tells the waiter. 

“I’ll have the chicken, potatoes, and…” Paul jabs at the first vegetable that is not listed in French on the menu.

“The tahini lemon-garlic cauliflower? Excellent choice. Everyone orders it,” says the waiter.

Malcolm’s eyes light up when the waiter brings him hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and dusted with cocoa powder. Paul drinks coffee.

“Shouldn’t that be green?” Paul says, eyeing the white asparagus.

“That’s not all. The carrots are purple and the heirloom tomatoes are yellow,” says Malcolm, indicating his small salad.

“Wonder of wonders. At least chicken is chicken,” says Paul. He finishes the cauliflower first.

When Malcolm lays down his fork, Paul asks him, “What happened after Martin’s arrest? Seems the right place to start.”

“Dr. Whitly attempted to poison the arresting officer. They found all the physical evidence they needed, but he’s done well for himself. He has all the books and music he wants, and he consults for cardiac surgeries. You might have seen it in the papers when Dr. Whitly’s insanity plea went through,” answers Malcolm.

“What about you?” says Paul.

“I’ve been looking for answers. I still don’t know the full extent of his crimes, to this day. I need to know what my father did. It’s the only way that I can think of to keep going. Why did you keep the Buick?” says Malcolm.

“Martin went camping in the darned station wagon. After he made the news, it wasn’t much of a leap to think he used my station wagon for killing folks. Or that he could name me as his fall guy. As far as he knew, I either drowned or bled out. Safest place to be when a man wants you dead is the afterlife, don’t you think?”

“How did you meet? What’s your connection to Dr. Whitly?” asks Malcolm.

“Through work. We chatted about outdoorsy stuff whenever our shifts overlapped.”

“At St. Edwards Hospital,” says Malcolm.

“Yes.” Paul doesn’t deny the information which Dr. Whitly slipped to Malcolm.

“Why didn’t you report Dr. Whitly to the police?”

“I talked to the police,” says Paul. “He must’ve been hitting up the hospitals for information about Martin. White detective with reddish hair. Irish, I’d say.”

“Shannon?” says Malcolm.

“That’s about right. You couldn’t forget that guy. He was hard boiled. I didn’t dig on him,” says Paul. “Martin was already behind bars about to have his crazy trial. I wanted nothing to do with the circus. I moved on with my life. Changed my name and kept my head down. It’s been almost twenty years,” says Paul.

Paul rubs his beard, his eyes on Malcolm’s clenched fist on the table. Malcolm's hand twitches, knocking utensils into the plate.

“If Shannon was all over your dad’s connections, then he must’ve talked to you.”

“The day after Dr. Whitly’s arrest, my mother brought me to the precinct. I was a material witness, according to Detective Turner,” says Malcolm. “Detective Shannon took the interview further. He seemed to think I was daddy’s little monster. He said over and over that I helped like an accomplice. I was shaken by the encounter.”

“You stayed shook,” says Paul. Malcolm waves off his sympathy, leaping into the next topic.

“What did my father do to you? You said that he disposed of you in the water while you were alive. The Surgeon typically paralyzed his victims and experimented for hours. If my father wanted you dead, he would have tortured you. Explain why you were different,” says Malcolm, applying pressure. 

He meant to bring Paul to a crowded place, outside his usual element, and volunteer painful details. Neither his mother or Gil know exactly what Shannon accused him of. Discovery of Dr. Whitly’s secret life by itself explained why Malcolm went mute for several months.

“Do you want to see?” says Paul.

“I have to,” answers Malcolm, an edge to his tone.

“Not here then. Do you live close by?” says Paul.

Malcolm submits to Paul’s stipulation. They stroll down Lafayette Street and Malcolm invites him into his walk-up. Paul pauses at the birdcage and says hello to the parakeet. He drifts toward the weapons. Malcolm’s collection includes different types of blades and antique firearms but what Malcolm presents to Paul is the switchblade. 

“I pulled that out before stitching myself with a fishing line and a rusty hook,” says Paul. 

They’re facing one another near the kitchen island where Malcolm’s prescription bottles line up. He’s three feet from Malcolm and makes no move to come any closer or to reclaim the folded knife. His black wool coat flops over the chair. Paul loosens his rust colored tie and opens the denim shirt, lifting his white undershirt. Malcolm’s heart pounds and he has to suppress his excitement.

Paul pivots to place his necktie on the island and Malcolm spies the tapered scars crossed on the middle of Paul’s back. Then Paul turns around and shows Malcolm the scar slanted on his left side. His gut hangs over his belt. Malcolm experiences a fight or flight response, holding the switchblade and standing close to Paul. 

“This. This knife was from Jersey. Dad bought it but it’s mine. Oh my God, it’s my knife.”

Malcolm shudders in horror, his face crumpling, a tear trickling down the corner of his lip. When Paul steps closer, but not too close, Malcolm drops the knife. He doesn’t remember pushing the button to open the blade. The blade scratches the varnished hardwood where it falls. Malcolm’s knuckles crack as he gets a grip on the tremors which are radiating into his elbow and cramping his entire arm.

“All this time, I thought you were almost the Surgeon’s victim, but that’s not it. The truth is I tried to kill you, Paul. I see you now. I know who you are. Who I am. What I am. I’m guilty, just like my father.”

The person who Malcolm thought he was doesn’t exist; the core of Malcolm’s identity is disproved by the evidence of his wrong-doing. Paul hugs him and Malcolm just props his chin onto the man’s shoulder. 

“What are you doing, Paul?”

“The thing about forgiveness is that only the guilty need to get forgiveness. So right now as of this moment, you’re forgiven. I see you, too. You’re sorry about sticking me. Just as Jesus God forgives my sins, I forgive you yours. I forgive you and I won’t bring it up again.”

“Am I why you didn’t come forward to the authorities? You should’ve anyway,” says Malcolm.

Paul smirks. “You think I wanted to tell the police that a ten year old boy nearly ended me?” 

Paul's mouth abruptly flaps open and Malcolm realizes that he’s put his hand over the pale ridge, to feel its raised irregularity and to estimate how deeply he pierced.

“Why did I try to kill you?” pleads Malcolm.

Being in Paul’s arms is dredging up that terrifying night.

“It was dark in a room with couches and chairs. We were both inside, but it wasn't my house. You were bigger than me and you were too close. When you came at me, I reacted. What were you doing, Paul?” asks Malcolm.

“I was there to talk to your father. I surprised you, and then you surprised me. He wanted you dead, Malcolm. He told me so himself,” says Paul.

“My father wanted me dead? Me? His own son?” repeats Malcolm, incredulous. 

“If you weren’t your father’s son, Malcolm, you wouldn’t have lived,” says Paul. He picks up the knife and offers it to Malcolm who numbly accepts.

Malcolm concludes that his own actions were no different than the actions of the child who killed for pleasure. He simply buried the truth of himself years ago. He is like Isaac Parker. More truthfully, he is the same as Dr. Whitly. He’s not happy, per say, but he feels more real to himself. His reflection in the knife smiles.

“The Lord has a purpose for you. Whatever His designs are, you were delivered to me. You could be the answer to my prayers, if you’re willing to help me,” says Paul.

Malcolm places the switchblade on the kitchen island, orienting the sharpened tip towards Paul.

“What kind of help?” inquires Malcolm. 

“There’s a big shot detective who believes that I’m your dad’s accomplice when I was almost another casualty. You’re the only person who can say that Martin wanted me dead. That he floated me down river, belly down, with a knife in me. Help me, Malcolm.”

“You want me to vouch for you and clear your name,” says Malcolm.

“No more than that, but no less. I just want to be free to quietly conduct my business and do my work,” urges Paul.

“Then there’s information I need from you, too. When did you suspect my father? What did you see? Don’t you dare omit details,” demands Malcolm.

“I don’t have a good answer. Those troubles were lifetimes ago and I let your dad get to me. That man can talk. I didn’t want to believe that he used me for twisted reasons. We were friends. I had no idea what I was in for the last time I went camping with him. With you tagging along. Hell of a trip,” says Paul.

Malcolm smacks the counter. His fingers card through his tousled hair. “I don’t remember enough! I have the knife! I have you. But I need the girl! There was a dead girl! I saw her. Everything needs to make sense!”

Malcolm's fingers spread on the kitchen island. His shoulders hunch and his head dips as his body folds dejectedly. Each defeated sigh blows out his dangling strands of hair.

“Paul, did you ever see something that didn’t look like anything at the time?!”

"It's possible. It might take a minute for it to come back to me, like it did for you. I might remember more if we keep talking," says Paul.

"We help each other out. Do you agree?" says Malcolm. He tries a wan smile when he can't stand up straight.

"I can do that much for you. Tell you everything I know to be true," says Paul. "But what if it destroys you, Malcolm?"

"Look at me, Paul. You'd just be finishing what my dad started," says Malcolm. His forehead presses the cool counter top. He groans. "I'll call Dr. Whitly and have a chat about old times. That's going to go so well."

"Call him now," says Paul. "If you throw him off, he might slip up. Martin was always more of a planner. He thinks in his head, not on his feet."

Malcolm considers Paul's assessment of Dr. Whitly. His father had been cool as a cucumber, intractable with his scalpel, with a man bleeding out in his cell. Yet the whole operation, caught on news camera, had been staged.

"Alright. I won't give him everything but I'll warn you that he's equally likely to blow me off or to pull excuses out of thin air to keep me on the line. He may still be confined without phone privileges," says Malcolm.

He dials Claremont. While he's shuffled to Dr. Whitly's direct line, Paul moves to the right of him and tilts his head into Malcolm's phone. The curled ends of his combed hair touch Malcolm's fingers as they rub shoulders.

"Yes? Martin speaking." Dr. Whitly's voice has a reedy quality but he sounds more like he's recovering from the flu instead of extended and debilitating isolation.

"Hello Dr. Whitly. How was solitary confinement?" says Malcolm.

"Oh happy day, Malcolm. You have the honor of being my first caller since the incident with young Tevin," says Dr. Whitly.

"What's my prize then?" retorts Malcolm.

"A whole day well spent with dear old dad. Bring your sister. We can have a Christmas Eve dinner and watch the news."

"You want Christmas?!" begins Malcolm. His shoulders are up to the tops of his ears until he feels Paul's touch on his back. He calms, grateful to be nudged on track.

"Don't be a humbug, Malcolm. I have all the time in the world for my children," says Dr. Whitly.

"I'm calling you about an attempted murder," says Malcolm.

Dr. Whitly makes an interested noise. "Do tell, my boy."

"Were you going to kill me when the chloroform didn't work?" says Malcolm.

"I w-would never. I didn't kill you. You wound me, son," says Dr. Whitly.

"Do you remember the knife I lost from our camping trip?" says Malcolm.

Dr. Whitly laughs. "Malcolm, camping tools are a dime a dozen."

"I remember. You threw it in a river, along with--"

"Then you should also remember that our conversations are monitored for quality of service," gushes Dr. Whitly. Malcolm can almost see his fingers dancing.

"If you don't want me to pursue this, tell me about the girl in the box. She was your 24th victim, wasn't she? What harm would it do if you divulged the location of her body for the sake of her family?" says Malcolm, almost growling. 

"Be quiet, Malcolm!" snarls Dr. Whitly. "If someone wants to be dead, they have the right to stay dead. My hands are literally tied to my leg irons. I will not stand trial again for the girl in the box because she's a figment! There is no dead girl. Listen to Dad! There is no dead girl. Your fragile lives depend on it."

The crease between Malcolm's nose and his cheek is dampened with tears.

"Okay, Dr. Whitly. Thank you for that. Whatever that was. I'll defer to my alternate sources," says Malcolm.

"Come and see me, Malcolm. Get your info firsthand," says Dr. Whitly. "Don't trust anyone else."

"Won't be necessary. Next time we speak, I'll keep it professional," says Malcolm.

"Malcolm!"

"Yes?"

"Happy holidays, son."

"Sure, Dr. Whitly. Happy holidays." His teeth are grinding hard and he's shaking so much that Paul loops an arm around him. Paul's breathing deepens and for a moment, Malcolm thinks that Paul smells him.

Paul grips his lower arm before Malcolm throws his phone. The iPhone clatters onto the counter top as Malcolm resists. Paul pins him to the hard edge.

"You can fix a lot of things, but you can't fix this, Paul!"

"Just try me, little Malcolm. Try me. You may use me to get back at your dad," says Paul. "But you have to be honest about why you're this worked up. You're still pissed and that's why you won't quit chasing your past."

"Of course I'm angry! He's only lied to me since the day I was born! I'm right! He's wrong!" yells Malcolm.

"Can't tell you nothing, huh?" says Paul. He relinquishes his grip on Malcolm. "One of these days, I'll get through to you, so help me God."

Malcolm tosses his head and smooths back his hair. "First thing's first. Who do I talk to on your behalf? Give me a name."

"Detective Turner," says Paul.

"Okay. I'll follow up. It's the least I can do," says Malcolm. He'll never make up for every life ruined by Dr. Whitly.

"It can wait until after the holidays," says Paul, smirking. "Before you go jumping in."

Malcolm's taken aback when Paul touches the side of his head and ruffles his hair.

"Merry Christmas. And Happy New Year," says Paul.

When Paul slips on his tie and coat, Malcolm offers him a ride home.

"No need," declines Paul. "I'm heading to a soup kitchen. It's important work."

Malcolm, despite himself, darts a look at Paul's left side. He sets aside his anger towards Dr. Whitly, weighs it down with his guilt until nobler feelings arise. He knows Dr. Whitly to be a manipulative liar. If Dr. Whitly doesn't want Malcolm to talk to anyone else such as Paul, then Malcolm has all the more reason to ignore Dr. Whitly's warnings and get even closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to keep this to three chapters. I think I can. I think I can. Chugga chugga woo woo.


	3. Love Lies Bleeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more hurty less fluffy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: I had to split the final planned chapter (to no one's surprise).

On Christmas morning, Crystal Parker persuades her son Isaac to pose for photos. The psychiatric staff tape Christmas wrapping and shiny bows to the walls for impromptu photos. From beneath his Santa hat, Isaac stares dead eyed at Malcolm’s iPhone while Crystal sparkles in her red sequined hat. His Santa hat is black with white snowflake prints and trimmed with black plush. 

“Say cheese!” chirps Malcolm. Bashful surprise flits across Isaac’s face when his mom wrestles him for smooches. Malcolm snaps twenty photos in burst shots. Isaac still looks unimpressed when he stands in-between Malcolm and Crystal while staff take their photo, but his hand briefly catches on Malcolm’s wool sleeve when the camera flashes.

Though he increases his drive time to go around Greenbelt, Malcolm is happy to gift a few comic books and individually wrapped gourmet chocolates to Isaac. No lollipops. Especially no candy canes which can be sharpened to deliciously sharp points. Crystal gets a Christmas card and a personal check from Malcolm. Malcolm’s check is customized with a rubber duck background; the rubber duck wears a white collar shirt, black necktie, and sunglasses like an FBI agent.

“It’s not a problem, Mrs. Parker. If you want to pay me back, maybe you can teach me some grav maca,” says Malcolm, in response to Crystal’s uncomfortable thank yous.

“It’s Krav Maga. Also, I’m not Mrs. Parker anymore. Just say Crystal. Or I will fight you,” she says.

“My mom can kick your butt,” says Isaac.

“I’m used to it. Nothing but strong women around me,” laughs Malcolm. He asks Crystal some hard questions after saying goodbye to Isaac. Malcolm listens while he looks over Crystal’s shoulder and sees Isaac tearing pages out of one comic book into a neat stack.

“Things are calm. They won’t let Isaac have chocolate pudding. Something or other about too much sugar, but the branded stuff is sugar-free. It’s bull,” Crystal reports before her brown eyes narrow. With her hair curled in glossy waves and makeup shimmering around her eyes, it’s easy to see how she snapped up a beefcake boyfriend right after separating from the late Mr. Parker. “And thank you for hiring that private investigator. Jake dropped the charges. He took the money, but it’s done. Thank you, Malcolm.”

The sweet exchange at Gardner Psychiatric almost takes away Malcolm’s dread leading up to Christmas dinner with his mother and sister. He brings packaged blueberry pie. Ainsley brings pink moscato and a friend.

Eve stares at Malcolm over her homemade cherry pie, already backpedaling in her festive blue pumps with crystal snowflakes glimmering over the rounded toes. “M- Merry Christmas to you, Malcolm. I’m not staying long, sorry.”

Malcolm looks right at Ainsley who raises her champagne glass.

“Merry Christmas, bro.”

“Don’t be overly concerned, dear. Murderers don’t take off days on Christmas; Malcolm is liable to find himself somewhere else to be,” drawls Jessica.

“I couldn’t leave anyway. You’ve got more than a few carolers out front,” Eve says, referring to the reporters camped outside in response to Ainsley's interview with The Surgeon.

Eve and Jessica sip half a glass of Ainsley’s sweet moscato before they both tacitly pour out Scotch neat.

“How is work?” says Malcolm to Eve.

“Busy. Everyone’s rushing before the holidays,” says Eve. She clears her throat. “But I could have called you. You’re the main reason why I’m here, Malcolm. I haven’t responded to your texts or picked up your calls because I’ve been thinking on how to explain myself.”

“Eve, you don’t have to volunteer more than you already have. I’m the one who, you know, screwed things up for us,” says Malcolm.

“Give us the scoop, Ms. Sanders,” says Ainsley. She leans forward, the corner of her mouth lifting when Eve glares and Malcolm looks confused.

“Now, children. Remember that it’s Christmas and we’re all at the adults’ table,” says Jessica. “Eve, you have maybe another minute before Ainsley gives. Bit refreshing actually, since it’s not our family’s unmentionables getting aired out.”

“When I was a little girl, Momma died and my big sis ran away. We both knew older girls who were raped by their foster parents. She took mom’s wallet, makeup, and some jewelry to pawn off. Dad was gone. Just like that, I lost my entire family. I was born to Amelia Sanders but Blanchard is my real name; I was adopted and I wanted to be closer to the people who raised me right,” says Eve. “I am Eve Blanchard. It’s the name which my sister wrote when she mailed me postcards.”

Eve’s mouth twitches, the corners of her frosted pink lips pulling back tightly in sorrowful brackets as her eyes brim over in the light of the chandelier. “I’m going to show you something. Malcolm, will you please bring me my purse?”

Malcolm practically executes a soaring split leap to bring her purse. Eve twirls the combination lock on the exterior pocket of her light pink Michael Kors satchel bag. She lays out a glossy photo of the city skyline with the twin towers of the World Trade Center. The postcard curls into itself. 

Malcolm crouches before the distraught young woman, his fingers scant inches from her hand protectively shielding her treasured momento.

“May I?” requests Malcolm. 

She flips it over, her manicure pointed at the postmark date, from the year 1998 and the month prior to the arrest of The Surgeon. The sender excluded their return address. The postcard was handwritten in cursive by Sophie S.

“Holy…” Ainsley trails off, catching her breath.

“Bastard. That bastard,” says Jessica. She pushes aside her pristine plate to make room for the Scotch bottle. “Always ruining Christmas like a damned Dickensian apparition.”

“What do you want from us, Eve?” demands Ainsley. 

“Isn’t it obvious, Ains? She’s not chasing the money or digging up dirt on us. The anti-trafficking organizations for which you advocate; you were looking after the lost girls like your sister,” says Malcolm.

“Yes. I want Sophie. Please. I know I made a mistake by ingratiating myself on false pretenses, but I’ve already come this far. I took a second state bar exam. Do you know how much I rent for 1080 square feet?!” exclaims Eve.

Thin veins stand out on her delicate forehead as she swipes at her red-rimmed eyes. “I mean, I don’t expect her to be alive after all this time. I just can’t stop looking. When I’m jogging. When a blond dog walker passes by with half a dozen leashes. Whenever a cat lady bites the dust and animal control gets involved. She drove Momma crazy with the babies she brought in. Paws, fur, that was her. If you know anything or think you know--”

“Stop! Stop it right there,” gasps Jessica when she sees how Malcolm looks at Eve. She recognizes his single minded intensity stirring into an all-consuming blaze. “Can’t you see what you’re asking of my son? He saw things, Godawful things, and I’ll thank you not to push him down any lower than he’s already been.”

“But Mother, we might have a connection. What if--” begins Malcolm.

“I forbid further speculation of the girl in the box,” says Jessica, scraping back her chair.

“Mother! Eve deserves our undivided attention. You said it yourself. We hear about Dad, but never the victims. I’ll admit that it’s a wild possibility, but we can verify. We can look for leads and investigate,” says Ainsley.

“We can help our friend,” says Malcolm. “I can’t make promises, Eve. I can’t make another promise that I might break. But I can start with a paper trail of education, employment history, last known background checks or clearances.” 

Malcolm pauses and says as gingerly as he can, “Perhaps if there’s, ah, minor criminal offenses or unresolved municipal issues.”

Eve hiccups a laugh. “What a thing to say. My sister, a petty criminal? She wouldn’t be in the books. Sophie was the type to never get caught.”

She sobs. “Except for the one time someone finally did.”

“I’ll help you. I’ll do everything I can. You won’t be alone in your search,” says Malcolm. He cradles Eve’s hands within his own. Her pulse is under his thumbs.

“So will I. Malcolm’s not the best investigator in the family. Just you wait,” says Ainsley, flipping her hair in a cavalier fashion.

“I pledge one million dollars, to be used at your discretion, for purposes of tracking down one Sophie Sanders,” declares Jessica.

Eve knocks over authentic silver utensils. “One million? How many drinks have you had, Jessica?!”

“I’m nowhere near my limit, Eve darling. Not for cash and certainly not for booze. Can we all please get into the spirit of the holidays?” says Jessica.

“You can’t blame her for doubting us. Any lawyer worth her salt would get it in writing, Mother,” quips Ainsley.

“We can draw up a written agreement before I go, if I may use your ink printer. I have my tablet with templates,” says Eve.

“I’ll sign as a witness,” says Malcolm. As does Ainsley.

“Marvelous. How are the Blanchards doing, by the way? If we get through dessert without any discussion of sordid topics, that would be my Christmas miracle. For God’s sake,” huffs Jessica. She folds the linen over her aubergine dinner gown. 

Eve tells them of her holiday plans to spend the first week of January in North Carolina with her adoptive family, extended relatives, and her precious few but long standing hometown friends.

Malcolm takes one extremely thin slice of cherry pie as a way of subliminally making Eve feel more welcome. The syrup trickles along the back of his throat like medicine that won’t take. His instincts; his thoughts; everything in him leans towards Paul. Malcolm can’t make heads or tails of who he was before his father, but he remembers Paul.

* * *

Malcolm almost chooses a lilac button-up shirt to go with his gray trousers, except he hasn’t slept. Eye drops diminish redness. Gelled eye masks cooled in the freezer minimize puffiness, but he needs to brighten. The lilac goes back onto the hanger. 

His destination is a downtown hotel. Malcolm dances with and then around the children running loose in their dinner party formal wear. With New Years Eve looming, the decorative spruce tree remains stooped with lights, tinsel, and glittering Styrofoam. Malcolm moves away from the guest lounge where the older couples and families gather. His green peacoat flaps open as he heads for the hotel bar.

Malcolm starts his tab and, after scanning the room, undoes the top buttons of his robin egg blue shirt. The married folks are mingling, but not, perhaps, with their legal spouses. He notes the escorts in their muted dresses and silk hosiery. His phone, on airplane mode, is stowed in the lining of his peacoat to ward off pickpockets.

Before he composes the words he’ll use to strike up conversation, the bar attendant slides him another glass. 

“Excuse me, this--”

“From the African American gentleman,” says the bar attendant. “If you like cops.”

Malcolm is amused that there’s no question from all involved parties on whether he likes men. He slinks to the other end of the bar.

“Hello, Chief Turner. Happy holidays,” says Malcolm. He props his lower arms on the bar top and slants his body.

Turner rubs his short goatee, laughing like he’s been killed by a punchline, before he hangs his head. Turner’s rueful gaze lifts from Malcolm’s slim legs to his eyes, especially highlighted by his vivid egg blue shirt. “Oh, don’t tell me. Your agency throwing me the correct bait this time?” 

“I’m a free agent,” says Malcolm. “Acting on my own. I have some questions for you. Think you can sit through a little prodding?”

“That’s my line,” says Turner. 

Malcolm licks his lips and bites down a smirk.

“Go on, now. Conduct your interrogation,” says Turner.

“I would be remiss if I jumped the gun without re-introducing myself. Long time no see,” says Malcolm.

“Bullshit, I never met you,” says Turner. His thumb skims the buckle of Malcolm’s watch, along the soft skin of his wrist. Turner maintains his unimpeachable straight face. “I’d have tried something soon as I saw you. Nice eyes. Would you say they’re blue-green?”

Malcolm likes Turner, but he pushes forth with serious business. “I go by Bright nowadays. I was a Whitly.”

The shift is subtle; Turner doesn’t jerk back his hand, but he might as well have. He pats Malcolm’s sleeve and reaches for his drink. 

“This not gonna come out right. Can you pop a few more buttons for me, baby? And pull your hair back from over your ears?” requests Turner.

Malcolm undoes the entire front of his shirt which hangs open when Malcolm raises his arms and turns his head side to side, confirming no earpiece for spying; Turner’s cursory check for wiring lingers on the dark hairs circling Malcolm’s nipples and dusting his abs. Malcolm then buttons himself all the way up.

“Damn, you’re really not here to screw me. Wouldn’t you believe that on Christmas Day, little miss twenty six from a discreet agency--you know the ones-- offered to inform on her madam. Vice set up shop from Christmas to New Years, prepared for multiple busts from increased sex trafficking. Then she shows up and the conversation is recorded. Meaning years from now, it’s going to be archived on Wikileaks that a sex worker attempted to compel intercourse with a cop. And she failed because, well, the cop has a thing for pretty blue eyed types.”

Malcolm’s teeth flash, charmed by Turner’s warmth and humor. He’s physically responding to the flirty overtures, catches himself drooping his eyelids to play up the long lashes framing his best features. 

“You’ve done very well for yourself, Chief Turner--”

“Ian,” insists the older man. “The men under me know me as Chief.”

“Ian,” agrees Malcolm, raising his brow as he overlooks the flirting. “Why are you looking into The Surgeon’s closed case? A source tells me that you’ve been conducting private investigations after the fact.”

The chief detective sucks air through his teeth, visibly annoyed. “I have nothing to do with that cold mess. You want the guy who’s stirring things up, look no further than a former colleague of mine. Shannon. I should get on him for impersonating law enforcement.”

Malcolm watches Ian pull an elegant metal pen from the inner pocket of his navy suit jacket. Ian scratches out an area code and phone number onto a cocktail napkin. “This is Shannon’s landline. You’ll get his answering machine. Paranoid bastard screens incoming calls. I wouldn’t just show up on his porch, neither, if you don’t want a revolver in your face. Be a shame.”

“What would be a shame?” asks Malcolm. He pockets the cocktail napkin with Shannon’s phone number for follow up.

“If he rearranged your face, it would be a crying shame. You’re also looking well in spite of things,” says Ian. “Anything else you want to ask me?”

Ian snaps his fingers, looking pleased with himself. “Malcolm. That’s who you are. My, my, my.”

“Do you still have that room booked?” says Malcolm. He collects his coat before Ian escorts him to the reserved hotel room. The maid finishes turn down service and exits Ian’s room. The scanner emits a green light though Ian is too distracted to fish out his card key. Ian’s fingers are flexed around the seat of Malcolm’s trousers. They’re halfway through the door when Malcolm turns himself around to loosen up his buttons again. Malcolm flings his peacoat onto the neat bed. He doesn’t hear the door shut because Ian pins him on top of the fluffed covers and insists on removing Malcolm’s shirt.

Malcolm toes off his loafers and runs his socked feet along Ian’s calves. Ian’s fingers dip beneath the waistband of Malcolm’s trousers. Malcolm arches into Ian’s weight and his bold touch.

“Do you have condoms?” asks Malcolm.

“I’m always packing, baby. Call it optimism at my age,” says Ian, tugging at Malcolm’s belt. Malcolm sucks in his stomach when Ian pulls, allowing himself to be stripped in one fell swoop. Briefs and trousers come off. Ian likewise kicks off his bottoms; he takes off everything but his navy argyle socks and a faded NYPD shirt.

Malcolm gets his hands under Ian’s shirt, skimming over his fit and firm and hot body. Ian’s head tilts in pleasure when Malcolm drags his nails over Ian’s tense muscles.

“How do you feel about cuffs? Not the fuzzy ones,” says Ian.

“Love them,” says Malcolm, before he gets the breath kissed out of him. He moans as Ian rolls a nipple between tongue and teeth.

“Would you let me choke you in my cuffs?”

“If you mean that you’re fucking my mouth, the answer is a resounding yes,” says Malcolm.

A ribbon of magnums gleam beside Ian’s thigh. The rug irritates the skin on Malcolm’s knees, but he focuses on the steel cuffs locking his wrists together at the small of his back. His lips stretch and his tongue partially blocks his airways as Ian pushes into his throat. 

“Open your eyes, baby. Wanna make you cry. Wanna see how pretty,” says Ian. He takes fistfuls of Malcolm’s soft brown hair and doesn’t stop no matter how hard Malcolm’s gags, how much Malcolm slobbers on his balls, or when Malcolm’s posture suffers the longer Ian holds Malcolm’s head down and forces his cock deeper. Malcolm endures the thickness which stops his breath, and the firmness which breaks him into nothing less than a hungry mouth.

Malcolm’s leaking hard when Ian wants him back on the bed. Ian piles up the pillows and rolls on the condom which is pre-lubed. Ian squeezes the remaining lube out of the foil packet onto his fingers. Malcolm is on his cheek and his stomach, ass raised to the air. Ian works in his middle and ring fingers, stroking and hooking his digits until Malcolm writhes and bites a pillow. Ian spanks each ass cheek into a beautiful flush.

While Malcolm prefers to be on all fours and taking it from behind, Ian lies down and raises his upper body into a slant atop the many pillows. He grips Malcolm’s waist and positions Malcolm on his lap.

“Can you ride dick?” asks Ian. “I’m going to watch your face when you come all over me, wrapped around my cock.”

Malcolm yells as he lowers himself onto the head of Ian’s cock. He breathes with intent when he’s hooked by the rim of his hole. The cuffs bite his wrists as his body resists. Malcolm pants as he consciously relaxes his lower body and he falls like dead weight, impaled on generously engorged cock. 

“Oh, fuck baby. You took so much of me. I was sure I’d bust you open. You’re incredible,” praises Ian. He grips Malcolm’s jaw, bites Malcolm’s well defined shoulder, and drives his hips up to watch Malcolm’s eyes flow like oceans, full of light and somehow deeper than light can reach.

Ian talks less the more he fucks into Malcolm’s hot clench. Though his hands aren’t particularly thick or large, Ian grabs both of Malcolm’s firm mounds and lifts Malcolm up and roughly pounds Malcolm to the hilt, his fingers and palms clamped onto muscle.

Ian’s door swings open. Malcolm can’t get a good look to check if it’s the maid or one of Ian’s subordinates. 

“Lo and behold. How the mighty have fallen.” It’s Paul. His voice has a lower octave, rolling gravelly quality that makes Malcolm’s cock twitch in response.

Malcolm freezes in his alert state of hyper arousal, hoping just this one time that he’s hearing voices that aren’t external to him. The alternative is that hotel cleaning staff did not reset the door lock, meaning that Paul is definitely standing there, getting eyefuls of Malcolm with black cock slotted between reddened ass cheeks.

“You! What the fuck are you-- Get out!” shouts Ian. He wraps a possessive arm around Malcolm and bunches the covers up.

“I only wanted a private chat with you, Detective. But I think we can come to an understanding. You leave me alone, and I won’t need to lodge a complaint about police partying on my tax dollars.”

“Yes, fine. I already forgot you. Now fuck off,” demands Ian.

“Glory, glory. God uses evil for good,” says Paul, edging to the door. Malcolm regrets meeting Paul’s eyes; he stifles his moan as Ian moves beneath his sore thighs.

Ian grumbles about people bothering him when he’s catching a lucky break. Malcolm shivers and Ian kisses him, slow and apologetic, once the intruder leaves.

“I’m okay. We’re all adults, right?” says Malcolm, attempting his best approximation of a sexy “devil may care” attitude.

“Most certainly,” agrees Ian. He goes in for another kiss and Malcolm leans his face away.

“Can we change our positions?” says Malcolm.

“If you can take some prodding from behind. You wanna keep my cuffs on, baby?” teases Ian.

“Absolutely. I kind of earned them from being very, very bad.” Malcolm sighs in relief when he’s allowed to bury his head in the sheets. He feels hands on his waist and around the back of his neck. He gets to savor the torturous burn that culminates in fullness he feels up to his throat. He imagines whoever he wants, shuddering as he spills freely, the name on his lips muffled in sweat-soaked and twisted sheets.

* * *

Malcolm's tumble with Detective Chief Ian Turner guarantees that the NYPD will leave Paul alone. The chief doesn't want investigations into any fraternization on duty with department resources. Suspicion tightens Malcolm’s overly sensitive stomach the first time his call goes straight to voicemail. Worse than the suspicion is the cold certainty that Paul is done with Malcolm. Malcolm doesn’t want to believe that their friendship was contingent on Paul getting what he wanted.

“Paul, call me? We need to talk,” says Malcolm, after the beep. When he calls Paul in mid-January, Malcolm listens to the automated female voice confirm that the number he’s trying to reach is no longer in service, good bye. Malcolm showers twice a day but he can’t wash off the knowledge that he’s been used and discarded.

Despite the safe recovery of kidnapped heiress Andressa “Andi” Fluxà Rosselló, Gil suspends Malcolm after the double arrest of Curtis Marsh and Dr. Coppenrath for the murder of Tristan Johnston.

“Take two weeks for yourself, Bright,” orders Gil.

“Gil, you know I need this job. You can’t send me home,” says Malcolm.

“Kid, you caused the Midtown blackout with Vosler’s shock machine. If you meant what you said earlier about my forcing you to visit your father after ten years, you could have discussed it with me in private and a lot sooner than when you did,” says Gil. “You’re good at your job but you are not in any state to work a case.”

“Because I’m right? You got your results, Lieutenant,” says Malcolm.

Gil doesn’t let Malcolm stroll out of his office with the last word. Mint, woodsy notes, and the musk of Gil’s cologne waft into Malcolm’s nostrils as Gil slaps the door, barring his glib exit. Gil’s silver wristwatch gleams, ticking down the time for patience. Regardless of the exact hour and minutes, Gil is half past done with Malcolm. Gil’s heart thunders in his chest as he backs Malcolm into the wall; all of Malcolm’s hackles rise as if he narrowly avoids a bolt of lightning.

“You get three weeks. I do not hear from you or see you coming around my precinct for three solid weeks; that’s 21 calendar days, Bright. I will hurt you,” promises Gil, low and close. Gil opens the door for Malcolm, looking murderous as Malcolm’s shoulder bumps him on the way out.

Anger is communicable strength, as far as Malcolm is concerned. He is no closer to discovering the final whereabouts of Sophie Sanders. He loses contact with Paul. Paul’s junkyard is closed for business when Malcolm drops by; the family who own the pizza joint near the junkyard say that Pauly may not return for a whole month. Dr. Whitly clams up when Malcolm shares the photo of them with the station wagon; especially when Malcolm shrewdly asks, “Did your hunting buddy take this shot, Dr. Whitly?”

Dr. Whitly’s second glance at Malcolm’s airy smile confirms that Paul once held that camera. Malcolm rummages through his shoe box for the camera, but concedes defeat when he recalls trashing it for a digital camera. 

That night, he hears someone’s snow blower sounding off. As he sits up, fatigue in his bones and fog in his brain, the storage trunk at the foot of his bed rattles and shakes. Malcolm unlatches his leather cuffs before he investigates. Inside the trunk is himself as a child, ashen and gouged and bleeding. Dead little Malcolm clutches straw to wound, but straw won’t stem the flow. Blood pours out though Malcolm shouts and bangs the lid shut. Roaring like an unstoppable machine, the red tide hits Malcolm full force.

Before Malcolm sleeps again, he shoves the trunk down his steps, too freaked out to consider its contents. He wakes up to another round of a snow blower motoring away in the dead of night. The trunk lays undisturbed at the foot of his bed. As he looks, the trunk hinges open. His arms are leaden, but Malcolm takes up the switchblade. He holds the switchblade in a reverse grip as he crawls forward on his bed to peek. Chunks of straw fill the trunk. When the brittle yellow stalks rustle, Malcolm’s switchblade jabs at movement. Shrieking wails erupt from the shuddering depths; the girl in the box is screaming she’s real he did it--

He spits up and the mouth guard drops onto his covers. Malcolm logs forty minutes for today’s entry in his sleep diary.

“Not an ideal start to the rest of my life, but okay. Forty minutes plus is still a plus,” says Malcolm. He’s not sure who he’s talking to; irate jealousy makes his eyelid twitch when Malcolm spies Sunshine resting her sunny head on her back, foot tucked into her belly. Perched on one foot, Sunshine clocks in ten restorative hours of sleep daily.

He’s so tired that juice sits in his stomach like a lead balloon. 

When a private number lights his phone, Malcolm answers. Instead of an automated recording, a man speaks in broad and sloppy syllables. Malcolm hears the smirk and smells the woozy aroma of hops like he’s still the ten year old boy in Shannon’s interrogation room.

“Which asswipe gave away my home phone, Shit Lee Whitly Junior?” growls Owen Shannon over the call.

A smile stretches Malcolm’s mouth. He eyes the faded line on his outer wrist from Ian Turner’s cuffs.

“Detective Shannon, glad you got my voicemail. How about we meet over food and discuss?” offers Malcolm.

“Nut off. As if you didn’t know I’m not a cop no mores. Is it just you or will you call up Lucky Boy to arrest me when I hurt your feelings??”

“Lieutenant Arroyo is in no way involved,” says Malcolm.

“I pick the spot. Your treat,” says Shannon.

Malcolm expects Shannon to choose a pub. Shannon instead goes for booth seating in a restaurant. He has gone gray on his pate and white on the sides, like an old newsprint charred by fire that long since burned out. Shannon stuffs his gullet with a 21 oz medium rare T-bone steak.

Malcolm is not averse to beef but Shannon’s meat is almost two inches thick. Barf.

“A source tells me that you’re investigating an individual who you believe to be The Surgeon’s accomplice. Although I doubt that a narcissist psychopath such as Dr. Whitly needed anyone to get away with murder,” says Malcolm. He chips at his buttery portion of Chilean sea bass, garnished with thyme and parsley. His shaky hand causes his fork to bump his cheek.

“Awww, don’t tell me. Shit Lee Whitly Senior, he don’t play well with the other inmates,” sneers Shannon.

Malcolm drinks sparkling water before he nearly mentions Tevin Standish shanking the news cameraman at Dr. Whitly’s say-so. Giving away behind-the-scenes interview details is a big “no no” according to the non-disclosure agreement which their entire family signed for NY Direct News employee Seok-Jin Ha to drop the criminal charges against Dr. Whitly and to withdraw the civil suit against Ainsley. Malcolm agrees with Jin’s aggressive measures to suppress footage of his nightmare surgery. Ainsley would have captioned Jin’s ordeal as “Murder Cells: Operation from Hell.” 

* * *

JT had favored “Take My Breath Away: Touched by a Killer.” When Edrisa found out, her question to Malcolm briefly sparked internal strife within Major Crimes: “So...Bright, would your family’s Q&A segment which includes the shanking be called the Uncut version because it’s the whole interview uncut? Or is it the Cut version because of what happened to the poor camera guy?” 

Gil had misconstrued the heated debates of Uncut vs. Cut as an office-wide argument on circumcisions. Dani had briefed Gil about the actual context during break time. “Why not just call it Q&A: Surgeon’s Cut? Be done with it,” Gil had suggested. 

“This is why the Powers That Be chose Gil,” everyone had agreed, in awe of Gil, Lieutenant Triumphant, D.I.C. (for daddy in charge).

* * *

He misses his friends too damned much. Malcolm shakes it off to focus on his dinner conversation. Enlisting Shannon’s help seems like more of a lost cause in Shannon’s company. The bloodhound detective let himself go to seed. Shannon sullenly chews the fat.

“Loose threads can tie you up. You walk on the edge too long, you’d grab your own noose to pull yourself back,” says Shannon. He swabs the grease from his mouth and chin. “Who gave you my information?”

Shannon betrays no surprise when Malcolm names the Chief of Detectives.

“Of course he would tell you, pretty boy,” says Shannon. He reeks after racking up a substantial charge for drinks. Malcolm gamely coaxes a physical address from Shannon. Shannon slings his arm over Malcolm’s shoulder. The ex-cop is more forthcoming when Malcolm drives and parks the station wagon. Though Shannon is steps away from his front door, he doesn’t roll out of the car.

“What did you hide from me, Whitly?” says Shannon. “Admit you knew about your dad. That you helped. You wasted all this time before finding me.”

“I didn’t help him. Dr. Whitly tried to make me like him, but I didn’t…” Malcolm is on the verge of saying he didn’t hurt anyone, but he stops because it’s not true. He hurt Paul. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“However,” concedes Malcolm, “I wasn’t totally innocent. I found the girl in my dad’s workshop, still alive. Dr. Whitly drugged me with chloroform and I lost time. She was gone when police came for my dad. Everyone said she wasn’t real.”

He closes his eyes and rubs at the lids until he blinks moisture into his eyeballs. “Her bra and underwear didn’t match. She had rolls on her stomach bent into a small space. Her hair was long and messy. I never saw a girl like that. How could my mind come up with those details?”

“My dad insists that I made her up, just like everyone else who I told my story to. Dr. Whitly is the only man who can say for sure what happened to her, but for his own reasons, he maintains the lie. I know he’s lying when he says that the girl in the box isn’t real. He never gives straight answers about anything, including what color the sky is. He would answer my question with questions or deflect with witticisms or segue to an anecdote with half-truths coded in small details. He would give me something to work with. He’s giving me zip which means he’s conspiring. I'm sure of it.”

“I didn’t stop looking either, Whitly Jr. My bosses decided case closed despite clues indicating that the Surgeon had help. Fucked me up. Turner didn’t cover my ass when Internal found reasons to sack me. I’ve used his good name more than once or twice but he has yet to take me to task for borrowing. Loyal, despite things. He’s my guy.”

Streetlamps reflect on the barrel and the cylinder of Shannon’s revolver as the hammer clicks. Malcolm’s switchblade burns a hole in his coat pocket, but his white knuckles clasp the wheel.

“So. Who’s your guy?” asks Shannon. 

“Jesus, you don’t want to do this,” says Malcolm. He looks down the shooty end.

Shannon snorts. “Somehow, I don’t think Jesus is your guy. Who you been talking to?”

“The same person you’ve been keeping tabs on. You know where he works,” says Malcolm.

“Do I? I paid a visit to his job, but is that where he works? Is that where you meet him for sick thrills?” taunts Shannon. “Tell me something. Why would a good looking rich young man waste time with a creepo like that?”

“It’s not like that. He doesn’t--” Malcolm’s eyes water. He clears his throat, but his voice cracks anyway. “He doesn’t want me.”

The metal barrel chills his temple, the front sight of Shannon’s revolver denting Malcolm’s skin not yet healed from Vosler’s ECT device.

“Is that so? How about we go for a drive? Get in some alone time,” suggests Shannon.

Malcolm’s lips set in a grave line. He already knows where the night will end. He asks Shannon anyway. “Where to?”

“Take us to the Bronx.”

Gun to his head, Malcolm complies when Shannon barks at him to cut the headlights and mow the station wagon through the flimsy wire gate barring access to the junkyard. After minor clunking and scraping, Malcolm drags to a stop. He’s unusually calm when Shannon hauls him out of the car and yanks him by the scruff of his coat, gun barrel against the base of his skull. The muscles between his shoulder blades are knotted so tightly that Malcolm is almost paralyzed. His elbows tense with his hands raised up.

"Where does he take the victims? Tell me now!!" demands Shannon. His sour breath and the alcohol oozing from his pores sickens Malcolm.

"I don't know! I haven't seen anything. If he's a killer, he didn't exactly advertise," Malcolm gasps.

"You and your friend have a special relationship. He helped your father. You're helping him. You know. Tell me!" Shannon's gun burrows closer to his brain stem.

"How would I know?! I swear I'm not," sobs Malcolm.

"Emotions are funny. If there's feelings, Whitly Jr, your guy's been dropping hints about what he is and what he's into. Think!" hisses Shannon.

"No. I can't be in love. If he knew how I felt, what I started to feel, he would be reviled by me. Or in the worst case scenario..." His denial echoes in the barren lot. Malcolm shakes his head, adamant despite the steel biting his nape.

"How bad can it really be?" says Shannon.

"He lives in a belief system which condemns homosexuality. He doesn't harbor any feelings about me. If he did, he would eventually make the choice between what God says is right and what his heart wants," says Malcolm. With death looming near, he confesses the unthinkable.

"I love Paul." Malcolm is miserable with it.

Shannon lowers his gun and he shoves Malcolm into the gravel. "That's the gayest shit I ever heard. Your tastes is lousy."

"Where are you going?" Malcolm calls out when Shannon strides toward giant steel containers. Malcolm recognizes the semi enclosed area; it's not far from where Paul caught Malcolm snooping.

"Shut up and find me the bodies," says Shannon. "We're gonna find out the truth tonight. Your guy isn't who he says."

"What makes you certain?" asks Malcolm. Shannon's cocksure attitude elevates his self doubt.

"You know him as Paul but-- what the fuck is that?" They both hear the disturbance of heavy metal objects colliding. Shannon takes off running with his loaded weapon, leaving Malcolm to fend for himself with the LED flashlight of his iPhone on 14% battery.

Shannon curses and yells. Piles of crushed and twisted metal obscure Malcolm's limited view. Malcolm blinks and almost misses the muzzle flash. After one gunshot shatters the night, Shannon's hollering suddenly cuts off. Malcolm whips out the switchblade and points the phone low to evade detection. He hopes that Shannon merely fell and discharged his weapon by accident.

Shannon is nowhere to be found, as though the earth opened up and swallowed him whole. In his place is Paul wearing his coveralls. A baseball cap partially hides his face, but Malcolm knows the shape of him amidst old tires, bent metal hubs, and a battered car door.

"Say it ain't so little Malcolm. You were gonna sell me out to a washed up cop. Puts a damper on my plans,” says Paul.

“I called first,” retorts Malcolm. He decides now is not the time to highlight his and Shannon’s mutual contempt. “What have you done? Come clean, Paul.”

"If you get me arrested, little Malcolm, who’s to know about the girl your father stuffed into a steamer trunk. Wouldn’t you like to know? Get the answers you need."

Malcolm takes too long to answer; he mentally earmarks where to look for Shannon if he can escape. In a split second, Malcolm prioritizes Shannon (who might well be alive) over the slim chance that Paul will tell him the truth about their shared past. 

Paul rolls his eyes. “I see. I have to make you disappear.”

“You’re not going to kill me Paul. You don’t want to be left alone. You think that I could become a part of your mission. Discipleship. You want someone who you can teach and who will keep up the work you've done.” As Malcolm rambles, he maps out an escape path to the station wagon.

“You talk as much as your dad. You Whitlys, I swear to God.”

He blinds Paul with the light on his phone before the battery flickers and dies. His mouth is like cotton, he needs to use the bathroom, and he bumps into stacked debris. The ensuing avalanche alerts the entire block as to Malcolm’s location. A rusted bar scrapes the back of his leg as he narrowly avoids getting squashed. He runs at a limp. Malcolm’s saving grace is that Paul doesn’t have Shannon’s gun; otherwise, Paul has five chances to shoot Malcolm down.

Paul catches up to him. Malcolm assumes an upright, athletic stance with hands up and one leg forward. The morning’s affirmation card flashes through his mind. “I can create a place of peace and safety no matter where I am.”

Malcolm is at a disadvantage without proper sleep and nutritious meals. His technique doesn’t have to be flawless for him to create many spaces between himself and the enemy. He must grapple and throw.

Paul tosses his baseball cap. Malcolm extends his arms to block. Paul strikes Malcolm in a cluster of ribs, pain dulling his reaction as he fights for breath. A right cross catches the hinge of Malcolm’s jaw. He winks out still standing.

He comes to where Paul knocks him flat. Malcolm recalls Paul's visage when he looked younger, when his hair was dark black and his face was trimmer without the fine lines around his eyes and mouth.

"You won't get away with this,” Malcolm gasps. Paul leers at him with unrepentant satisfaction.

"Take it from someone who's been working for twenty odd years. I'm very good at what I do. I'll show you." Paul grabs his hair and drags him to the station wagon. He then pistol whips Malcolm and throws him into the trunk.

The dawn red sky greets Malcolm. He's wearing last night's outfit with his long coat spread over his chest. His wrists are shackled and chained to the metal anchor brackets in the cargo area. Sunless winds practically rake his sore muscles from his bones once Paul removes the windshield from the station wagon. Paul also salvages the mirrors, the doors, and the wheels.

Paul pulls down the tailgate. "I hate to waste a decent engine, especially after you worked hard on it, little Malcolm. If only time were on my side, I would save the engine, too. Think I'll hold onto this thing instead."

He flicks open the switchblade. 

Malcolm can’t hold up his head. Paul lifts Malcolm’s chin with the knife, face alight with joy from his prize catch. "I'll remember you fondly, swear it."

"What do you mean by wasting an engine?" asks Malcolm. He whines when the knife opens a small cut and blood drips like warm syrup down his throat.

"Business practices. I usually take out the engine and the seats before I dispose of retired vehicles." Paul waves the knife around until the blade dries. He pockets the blooded momento.

"You're not using the knife to--"

"Nah, I don't make it personal. Not my style. You're going to find out in ten minutes when the gears warm up. Once I've started the works, it won't take long," says Paul. He draws Shannon's revolver. Dirt clings to the revolver's grip.

"This would be quicker, but I can't pull the trigger. Just looking at your face makes me want to change my mind. The voice told me that you would be my test," says Paul. He puts away the revolver and covers his eyes with his hands.

"Paul! It's not too late! We can still talk. I can hear a voice, too. It's from my father. I can see him and hear him but I don't have to listen. Don't listen to the voice in your head, Paul. Please."

"The thing is, I like the voice. It's a part of me. And right now, it's telling me to hurry before you tempt me," answers Paul. "Godspeed, little Malcolm."

"Wait! Paul, wait!"

Paul locks up the tailgate. Without any of the glass windows, Malcolm hears all too clearly when Paul leaves him to fire up the industrial car crusher. The scream machine grinds to life, eating up Malcolm's hoarse pleas for mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^_^;;; I did not plan to end it here. Don't kill me until I make it right.


	4. Bent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more plotty more whumps

Malcolm feels nearly frozen stiff, but for Paul’s chains which are warm around his wrists after leeching the heat from his skin. The links are too short for Malcolm to pinch himself awake. He jams his fingertips into his palms but his short nails, gnawed down from his worrying, do not produce any sharp sting to end the nightmare in which Malcolm finds himself. 

Malcolm kicks hard at the station wagon’s tailgate. The tailgate rattles but his forced efforts are lost in the keening squeal of the crushing lid grinding lower into a dead stop. Malcolm stills in the terrible silence of the crushing lid when it pauses one foot distance from the lower bed of the crushing chamber. His face crumples; his head throbs where Paul struck him down. Malcolm vividly pictures the diagram of a human skull like a page from Gray’s Anatomy that’s about to be balled up beyond recognition. He’s dizzy as his breaths shorten. Paul’s chains hold him fast as his thoughts spin to nothing. The pounding within his unbroken skull diminishes to radio static. 

A sharp gust blows through the partially stripped frame of the station wagon and stings Malcolm’s scruffy cheek. The tears which have iced over tug the lines of his eyes. From his paralyzed vantage, Malcolm watches the latticed boom of a crane machine swing around. 

Within minutes, a giant metallic clank upon the roof of the Buick jolts Malcolm to the marrow and sets his ears ringing. The hairs on his body rise because he swears he can feel the station wagon humming. The chain links inexplicably curve upward, unnaturally angled, as they react to a magnetic energy field. In a flash, Malcolm remembers that electromagnetic cranes generate -220 Volts DC. 

The station wagon groans and creaks and then it feels like an earthquake hits. The chains prevent Malcolm from flying out of the rear feet first or smashing bodily into the roof. His coat is lost to the winds. His arms go numb, a small mercy from how kinetic forces violently take hold of Malcolm’s shoulders, elbows, and wrists. 

The magnetic crane hauls the station wagon onto a sloped conveyor belt which feeds vehicles into the chamber of the four post industrial compactor. Malcolm jerks into a rough slide and cries out when the shackle bites his right wrist. The quaking ends before fear squeezes the life out of him. The crushing chamber of the running compactor screeches Malcolm’s name before eclipsing the blood red sun. Like the lid shutting a girl inside a box.

Malcolm sees her clearly now in his little body hunched in the backseat of his dad’s station wagon. At night, her wavy blond hair glints in the storm light overlooking the cabin porch. When Malcolm squints, he can see her lashes, her thin brows, her pointed nose. She blinks at him, groggily.

“Found you,” whispers Malcolm. A black hand closes over his nose and mouth. When he struggles, he can’t get free, as though chains bind his short and skinny arms.

“Shhh… I’m taking you home, my boy. Dad’s here. I’ve got you,” soothes Martin. His beard crackles like straw as Malcolm fights for freedom.

“Dad! Help! Daddy!!” shouts Malcolm, but the machine rages on. He cries for his dad when the station wagon folds beneath the hand of God, welded steel torn like paper by the weight of judgment descending upon him. Sweetness floods Malcolm’s palate; soft like cloth; warm like tea. It doesn’t hurt, when his life is over.

Malcolm concludes that he must have fallen down leagues into the center of the earth after dying. He’s in a tight spot, so cramped that he’s sick from the stench of his own fear in the back of his throat raw from screaming. He can’t lift his hands much higher than the width of his carcass. He no longer suffers from steel plates closing in, but now he’s dreading an eternity inside a cold casket.

The buzzing in his ears begins at an imperceptible volume. Then his palms detect the vibrations rippling through the upholstery, followed by the squeal of metal scraping metal, and then the definitive crunch as the steel frame rips apart.

He hears his name. He means to answer in cogent syllables, but what spills out of him is a wet gurgle.

“Oh boy. I’m surprised you didn’t pass out. Hang tight. This will take a while,” says Paul. As Paul gradually peels open the wreckage, more light enters the hushed chamber of the industrial compactor. Paul turns his ball cap backwards to partially crawl into the rear. He moves carefully to avoid gashes from rough metal edges. Bolt cutters shear through the chain links.

“Can you move at all?” asks Paul.

“You bastard,” Malcolm croaks.

Paul chuckles before he disappears from view. Like a pair of giant scissors, hydraulic spreaders move the crumpled steel with ease, clearing space for Malcolm’s extrication. Malcolm doesn’t have the space to roll onto his belly and crawl. He has no choice but to suck in his gut and allow Paul to touch him. Paul grabs his arms while Malcolm wriggles to unstick. The sleeves of his dinner jacket bunch up and constrict blood flow in his arms. In the final tug, Malcolm mewls pitifully from sudden pain.

When he’s out of the wreckage, his jacket is shredded to ribbons tattered in the dust. He inhales more hurt into his injured chest with each panting gasp. As he dissociates from himself, Malcolm observes no wheezing or rattling breath sounds despite the fact that deeper inhalations sharpen his chest pain. The pressure of his own arms brings attention to wide areas of eye watering tenderness which guarantees swelling. Movement is agony.

“Leave me alone,” begs Malcolm. He entertains racing thoughts of whipping his broken chains at Paul or shoving Paul to impale him on the jagged points of torn steel panels protruding from the chamber of the car crusher.

Instead, Malcolm slumps against the deactivated conveyor belt, dead on his ruined loafers. Paul turns the ball cap forward and makes him stand straight.

“Shit, stop! My ribs are bruised if not busted!” cries Malcolm. He grinds his teeth and growls to shore up his remaining strength.

“You’ll live. See what the Lord has done,” says Paul. He makes Malcolm look at where the crushing lid stopped short of packing Malcolm like canned sardines. Malcolm observes the HURST electric generator and its attached extraction tool which peeled open the station wagon.

“Even if I were to cut the power, the hydraulic pressure should’ve kept the cylinders fired up. You might say it’s mechanical failure, but I have to say… If I didn’t get an inkling to grab the jaws of life and look, you would die suffocating,” explains Paul.

Malcolm tastes blood tinged bile coming up, threatening to erupt. In the afternoon light, the car compactor isn’t the gray color that he thought it was. The acuity of perfect terror reveals to Malcolm the faded blue exterior paint eroded by smog and dust.

Paul leads Malcolm to the garage. He shackles his captive to detached car seats stowed inside. Malcolm can’t stand the smell of exhaust and engine oil.

“I need a doctor, Paul. It’s unbearable,” gasps Malcolm. He fears the inevitable panic attack he will suffer with injured ribs.

“Rest. You passed your first trial, Malcolm. I won’t quit on you now,” says Paul. His grin stretches ear to ear. The sight of Malcolm battered in torn clothes and heavy chains brings unmitigated pleasure.

* * *

Paul removes the chains but keeps Malcolm inside the steel garage to ply him with alcohol. Malcolm awakens on detached car seats with a shout of horror that cuts off into tearful whimpers from the severe bruising. He gets coffee and Paul’s calm warnings not to run. Paul runs a thickly gloved hand up Malcolm’s side until Malcolm’s jaw grinds to the point of throbbing. Malcolm cooperates as far as allowing Paul to walk him near a large metal receptacle. The trains whistle but the commotion of dogs barking is absent, hinting to Malcolm that it’s the dark that comes before dawn.

Paul budges a car door with wood panels. Malcolm wonders if it’s from the station wagon. Paul could drop him down a hole in the ground for all that it matters. Malcolm’s fingers have long since gone numb in the short walk it takes for him to stumble to their destination with Paul’s brisk steps. He stands with both arms raised and shaking while Paul clips bungee cords rigged into a harness. The cords are connected to an industrial sized spool mounted on a small machine with cranks. Carabiner clips scrape the metal loops which support the tense points of Malcolm’s harness.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Malcolm says, in disbelief. The hole in the dirt glittering from grounded up glass stares back at Malcolm. Paul reveals it to him beneath a metal hatch with an undone padlock.

“Your trial awaits,” says Paul. His ball cap conceals his brows and blocks the minimal light surrounding his cunning eyes. Malcolm can’t read him.

“What’s down there?” says Malcolm. His ears strain for intonations and annunciations, listening for his answer between whatever lies Paul will speak.

“Blast from the past, little Malcolm,” reveals Paul. With a barking laugh, he says to Malcolm: “It won’t hurt as bad if you humble yourself. Get down in the dirt.”

Paul helps Malcolm sit on the edge with his legs dangling within the underground entrance. They both hear movement coming from below, of an unseen bogeyman going bump in the night. The switchblade is suddenly pointed between Malcolm’s eyes. 

“Oh and you’ll want this,” says Paul. He palms the weapon off to Malcolm. It falls through Malcolm’s nerveless fingers. Malcolm dives in, stomach plunging, with an agonized yelp, torn almost in half between the sharp sensations constricting his chest and the desire to stay quiet and survive. 

The cords strain audibly within the still and dead air. Malcolm inhales and expels his anguish as he is steadily lowered. The motorized sound, similar to the lawnmower or leaf blower haunting his dreams, churns until he lands on a flat plane. He instinctively knows that he stands upon flooring that’s so clean that the soles of his shoes glide. He stumbles, yelling when his body folds. His stiff fingers scramble for the knife as footfalls thud nearer, pounding over Malcolm’s faint heart.

“Hello? Stop, please stop!” begs Malcolm.

“Whitly, that you?”

“Shannon, don’t move. Jesus,” says Malcolm. That’s all he can get out before thick fingers strangle him, drowning him in pain and darkness and a fearful stench. Shannon won’t release him and will not hear reason. Malcolm’s fingernails are too stubby to hook into Shannon’s chapped hand. 

“Come on!” yells Shannon. “I knew you were a fucker! Should’ve snapped your scrawny neck years ago.”

Malcolm’s assailant smells awful, like corned beef left to spoil and belatedly pickled in spirits. His head swims from oxygen deprivation as remembered sweetness pervades his senses, like the imprint of artificial sugar. Malcolm recalls the cloying aroma of wine blockading his nostrils, a merciful respite from the sour breath puffing in his face. He recognizes the olfactory profile of chloroform.

“Come on, boy!” Dr. Whitly is in his head, the death grip around Malcolm nearly finishing him. Malcolm’s chin lifts in a reflexive snap and his hand, steady as a statue, embeds the knife into the source of life with a visceral squish.

When Malcolm can breathe again, he doesn’t want to. Shannon drops, pulling Malcolm down with him. Malcolm whimpers, aggrieved, as though the knife landed in his own heart. He can’t move; his joints lock up from the bone deep bruising. A strong, warm hand rests on the back of his neck as something dies inside Malcolm.

He’s too wrung out to scream when the harness braced around his upper body tugs him and he ascends out of hell. Pain consumes him like an inferno that an ocean of blood wouldn’t extinguish. Malcolm makes a desperate grab to cling to the body. His grip slides from the hilt of the firmly anchored switchblade slicked from innocent blood.

Paul squats at the opening as the humming motorized lift raises Malcolm nearer to him. A grated moan escapes Malcolm's bared teeth, confirming Malcolm’s inability to shout bloody murder. Paul cradles Malcolm’s head, protecting his skull from impact. Sturdy lines pull Malcolm through the hatch at a steady rate. Paul nudges the bill of his ball cap to gaze at Malcolm who dangles like a hanged man. 

For an extended moment, faded rays from emergency fluorescent lights reveal Paul’s enamored expression. Malcolm can’t turn it off when he reads the automatic parting of Paul’s lips, Paul’s eyes flicking down his bound form, the flared nostrils, and the lifted brows when Paul makes eyes at Malcolm. Paul leaves his hands on his hips to accentuate his masculine build for the apple of his eye.

When Paul crouches down to close and lock the secret hatch, Paul’s shoulders twitch as his feet point toward Malcolm who remains suspended. Malcolm knows that Paul stopped before touching his leg. Spots dance behind the lids of Malcolm’s eyelids when he shuts down. Paul operates his small lift; the support lines crank Malcolm into standing. Malcolm hunches and guards the extreme tenderness of his injuries further exacerbated by Shannon’s violence.

“Not a scratch on you. You did much better than I dared hope! When will I learn not to underestimate you?” croons Paul. Malcolm slumps when Paul unfastens the harness. There’s nothing else for Malcolm to hold onto. He grabs Paul’s sleeve before Paul guides him through unexplored stacks of industrial clunky refuse arranged like a rusted labyrinth. Paul brings Malcolm to what appears to be an unbroken wall of staggered metal parts and rotted clapboard. Paul tugs open the clapboard.

Malcolm limps through and finds himself within a mobile home that is 14 feet tall, 10 feet wide, and 20 feet long. Natural maple lumber makes up the sparse furniture, wall paneling, kitchen cupboards, and the flooring. Light maple finishes softly gleam under incandescent lamp fixtures. Paul built the kitchen in galley style, ideal for cramped ships, with shaker cabinet doors. 

The tiny home includes a bed and a round bistro table top fastened atop a vintage reddish oak barrel. A small, but solid maple door encloses the bathroom. The windows are narrow and horizontal, sitting higher up to allow for sunlight without revealing human activity from the outside. Last, but not least, a large black cross mounts the wall directly across the hidden entrance, the first thing Malcolm sees.

Malcolm doesn’t want to touch anything in his soiled and ruined clothes. The mark of murder sits like a red badge on his clothes. His eyes hurt from the gentle elegance surrounding him. There’s nowhere he can touch in an unmistakably well loved home that his shame wouldn’t taint.

Paul pumps water from a cast iron spigot into a shallow kitchenette sink, rinsing his hands. The water gurgles as it drains. The stove top kettle is a sunny ceramic yellow. The gas burner clicks into blue flames. He leans on the counter, an easy grin playing on his lips.

“Where are my manners? Would you like a turn?” asks Paul, gesturing at the water spigot. Malcolm doesn’t budge until Paul backs up a couple feet. The water is colder than balls but Malcolm eagerly numbs his right hand as he scrapes his tacky and encrusted skin. Shannon’s blood flakes off, gathering in rosy pools with crimson wisps streaming in the bleached soapstone sink. 

Malcolm inspects his nails with the water still running. He cups his hand beneath the spigot and splashes what he can in the general vicinity of his mouth. It’s like getting bitch slapped by an iceberg. Some of it cools his tongue, sharp enough to cut the gross film coating his mouth. It’s not bad going down but he can’t wash out the taste of blood which transfers from his hand. Malcolm can’t bend to drink directly from the tap.

“Your work targets the unclean. You don’t pick off all homeless, just the ones you judge to be addicts and cheap tricks. The poor people who you pity, you spare. Mission oriented, that’s you. Do you keep a little mirror for your assignments to reflect on? Or do you take their picture and show them? They’re marked for death and you tell them when it's time. You number their days and you taunt them.”

“Little Malcolm, you think you know everything,” says Paul. His thin eyebrows raise and draw into a line, wrinkles centered, tension in his lower eyes momentarily flattening puffiness.

Malcolm’s eyes widen, mirroring Paul’s fear. He almost covers his mouth, an unconscious gesture to diminish the mounting panic attack. What stops Malcolm from touching his mouth is the almost imperceptible blood soaking the crease of his knuckles. 

“When’s my number up? How many weeks before you take me out?” asks Malcolm.

”I wasn’t told that you would die by my hand. You’re not here for that. You’re wrong. You think you know what the voice tells me to do. You’re not marked for death,” says Paul.

”Then to what end, Paul?”

Paul’s lips disappear into his beard. His eyes avert left.

”Love,” he answers. Power leaves Malcolm’s body when Paul places his spotless hands on either side of Malcolm.

”What.” Malcolm doesn’t believe it.

”You heard me. You’re marked for--”

”No! You don’t get to say that. I’m not feeling the love here, Paul.” Malcolm’s frown nearly touches the bottom of his chin. His sides rattle like broken shutters as he tamps down the remorse welling up where Shannon choked him. 

"Love isn't anything that you have to do, Malcolm. Just endure what I give you."

Paul produces a bottle that’s smaller than 4 ounces. He warms the contents between his fingers. Malcolm smells the mineral oil before it smears his forehead. Paul grips his wrist before Malcolm can scratch where the mineral oil sits too heavily. Vertical lines crease between Paul’s eyebrows lowered into a hard stare. His beard sticks out further when his lower jaw juts out, mouth restrained into a suppressed shout.

“What’s the significance of anointing me?” says Malcolm. If he points out how angry Paul really is, he stands to get a broken wrist for his astute observations. He hopes that Paul’s desire for Malcolm to understand supersedes Paul’s impulse to see Malcolm punished.

“It’s to see you through your trials,” explains Paul. His tone lightens. “Me, personally, I thought you’d hold out for one week, maybe two at most. Just to get you holding the knife without making a mess in your pants.”

“I was coerced. It wasn’t my choice to take a life,” says Malcolm.

Paul snickers. “You butchered a man less than three days in.”

Malcolm sees Paul’s left arm working, rubbing where Malcolm’s knife marked him. The mineral oil trickles like tepid blood. Paul inhales reverently, getting in his fill as his eyes brighten. “You’re worthy of your father’s legacy.”

* * *

Paul brings him another sacrifice, this time a girl with dirty blond hair. Once he assists Malcolm into the Winnebago buried underground, Paul accompanies him in the narrow space. The girl cries and pleads for the life in her belly. Her bindings squeal as she thrashes, tweaking in her last moments. Paul says that she is a lying crack whore before he blinds the girl with a glaring spotlight dedicated for use within the Winnebago. Malcolm reads the signs of deception in the kidnapped girl and sadly agrees with Paul.

“Clean up this piece of garbage,” says Paul.

While the crack whore reeks worse than death and, given survival, will likely continue inter-generational cycles of drug abuse and criminality, Malcolm rails against ending her existence. Malcolm turns the knife on himself, aiming the lethal point towards the femoral artery in his thigh. 

Paul grapples Malcolm from behind, flooding Malcolm’s body with torment until he’s drowning in Paul’s arms.

"Guess what, hero? You killed her. Death will be slow. The weight of her sins and yours will kill her!" hisses Paul. His fist presses alongside Malcolm's sternum and Malcolm feels cartilage bend and bone shift, igniting his nerves as the air rushes like shrieking heavy gears.

When Malcolm awakens, he's buckled into a detached car seat outside, weakened by injuries, witnessing fluttery movements behind spider webbed glass before the four post industrial compactor chomps down a white car. The windows smash, liberating the girl’s piercing litany, glass shrapnel simplifying her into screaming units of flesh. Golden light oscillates on the white paint job and winks out with finality as the small vehicle compresses into a cold brick.

Paul is beside him, sipping coffee, arm around the back of the car seats, an unassuming pressure on Malcolm's shoulder. Paul sits wide, overshadowing Malcolm who habitually tucks in his knees.

"You crying over them or you crying for yourself?" asks Paul. "Cheer up, Malcolm. You get one more chance to pass your trials. Then I'm cuttin' ya loose."

Malcolm almost howls a laugh when the pain from his ribs spasms through his chest muscles. "You're letting me go, just like that?"

"Yeah. Go home. Maybe see a doc for your ouchies. You walk away, I wouldn’t stop you after a certain point," says Paul.

"Why? Why did I have to go through this if you weren’t going to trap me indefinitely?" demands Malcolm.

"Beats me," says Paul. "You had plenty of opportunities to do different. I says to ya get outta here, but ya come on back. I tells ya don't be here after hours and guess when I caught ya. Your own dad said for you to leave things and now you're up to your neck in blood."

"You should make peace with your old man," says Paul.

"Or else what?" Malcolm says, though he gleans what Paul's leading up to. "What happened to your grandfather. Did he get any of your so called forgiveness before or after you killed him."

"Forgave him after we buried him," says Paul. "I'll never forget it. Gam Gam cried but she talked him up like he was sainted in heaven. If I had known that Gam Gam would've gotten sick and lost her vision, I would've thought twice before knocking out his car lift.

"You'll have a change of heart after you've killed twenty three plus. Be hypocritical of you to bust your old man's chops when you've outdone him," says Paul.

"You can't make me. I'm not-- I'll surrender myself to homicide police. I'll blow up your scrap yard no matter how many years of jail time I serve," says Malcolm, determination pushing through each shallow breath.

"Gonna be tricky for you to turn yourself in for murder when you didn't leave bodies," says Paul. Malcolm's sides are splitting as Paul draws him near. "Later this morning, there will be slightly more trash for me to recycle off-site. Then I'll compact some cork boards to swab up garbage runoff."

"We could establish surveillance on your hunting grounds," says Malcolm. He sounds thin when he makes his claim. If he were to submit an anonymous tip to the police, Paul would be caught only by the grace of a God who favored Paul's mission.

"Just bring yourself, Malcolm. I want you back," says Paul. 

Paul lifts him by the chin, eyes lightened by the rays of a late dawn. He looks more than a little unnerved, gulping his throat, as his voice softly trails. Malcolm considers dashing the hot coffee into Paul's face. He puts his hand between Paul’s open winter jacket, fingers splayed on the front of Paul's coveralls. Paul's heart is in overdrive.

Pain radiates from Malcolm's face as he shifts forward. He gasps through the extreme tenderness of his chest muscles but what hurts more is that he stops just short of kissing Paul. He can't hide what he's willing to do. 

"May I have my phone? I should notify insurance," says Malcolm.

The station wagon is pulverized beneath the compacted evidence of Malcolm's latest kill.

"No can do. I already wiped your phone with a factory reset," says Paul. He smirks at Malcolm's dirty look.

"What would you tell your insurance?" asks Paul.

"I would claim that I traded it in. It was a bad deal,” says Malcolm. His face breaks, and he squeezes himself breathless, plugging up his tears with physical agony. He will not alleviate his own suffering by crying when his victims fared much worse.

“Even after all that time I spent with Martin, my hang ups make it hard for me to fulfill my mission as Lord intended. I’m meant to separate wheat from chaff but I can’t put my hands on garbage people. I put the garbage in the machine. Their deaths would be terrible without you there. Your gift to them is nicer. It’s better than what I can give,” says Paul.

“You’re using me to share your culpability. Attribute your murders to God or to other people, but you ultimately are at fault no matter how insane you are. You forced my hand, but at least I can admit that I killed the innocent. I’m the same as my father and I deserve to be locked up like he is.”

Paul’s lips touch the space between Malcolm’s eyes and both sides of his face, in the shape of a trinity. "You’d be wasted in prison. Let it go, Malcolm. A place was made for you here. This could be our corner of the kingdom.”

Paul smooths back Malcolm’s brown hair. It should hurt when he touches Malcolm like this, but instead the pain in his body feels more bearable. Malcolm can pinpoint the exact moment when he forfeits his soul, when the hairs on Paul’s upper lip tickle the corner of his mouth as they kiss.

* * *

As it turns out, Paul uses mirrors to amplify his victims’ fatalistic wishes. Paul likes them skinny, underfed, and dehydrated for minimal fuss and even less clean up.

“You get used to the smell. Washing them doesn’t work when they’re detoxing. Avoid diabetics. If their fingertips are pricked, they go back to the streets. Diabetics crap ‘til their pants drop,” says Paul.

“What do you say to lure them?” says Malcolm, stalling. “Do you invite them to get high with you? Or do you solicit the hookers and bring them here?”

“Doesn’t take much more than drugs or immoral propositions. The smarter ones go in for a day’s wages to buy their smack. Come move my junk and make a quick buck,” says Paul. "God forbid, they try to rob me. Then it gets righteous real quick."

Malcolm’s final trial comes along within a week. Ryan Davis is a young white 26 year old male whose doe eyes and slightly overgrown brown hair bear a passing resemblance that makes Malcolm sick. Paul hovers by Malcolm’s side, breathing down Malcolm’s neck. The hint of baby oil clinging to Paul is a reprieve from how badly Ryan smells. Ryan’s pitiful begging fades into unstoppable gears bigger than the both of them whirling away in Malcolm's head. Malcolm can't hear Ryan over the woman wailing in his head, the one who Malcolm couldn't save from the car crusher. 

Malcolm’s switchblade avoids direct puncture to the left ventricle and nicks an inferior vein. Malcolm casts a furtive glance at Paul who is riveted by the man’s life receding as blood fills the thoracic cavity. Though not one drop is spilled, blood is on Malcolm's hands and Malcolm's hands alone. Malcolm gags from inexplicable nausea. The nausea could be caused by skipped doses of his prescriptions, the victim’s odor, malnourishment, etc. Each dry heave hooks into his spirit, locking him inside his wounds.

“Is this what you were looking for?” asks Malcolm, when they’re alone with the body. He stares down the lax shell of the young man who he could have been. 

“This is so much more than I prayed to God for.” Paul brings Malcolm to the mirror taped to the holding room. His beard crackles like straw along Malcolm’s skin. “You’re free, Malcolm. Don’t be afraid of who you are and what you will do.”

Paul’s ball cap flaps onto the vinyl floor as he leans his forehead behind Malcolm’s ear and presses his lips to Malcolm’s beating pulse. Malcolm’s right hand clutches at Paul’s fingers anchoring him. All he can see is Paul.

* * *

“Well, well. Did you know, Bright, that we had sixteen record days without no chopped hands?” JT says when Malcolm returns to work. He brings in a stack of folders and a small package.

“It would’ve been twenty one calendar days, but luckily our unsub is gifted enough to engineer vicious poetic justice on American royalty,” says Malcolm, after a beat. He remains standing, grateful when no one insists that he sit down because his sides are killing him.

“We’re starting to think you have a type, man. The smart and mean ones do it for you,” says JT.

“How badly did you beg Gil to let you back in?” smirks Dani. Her brows furrow when Malcolm rubs the back of his neck and hugs himself.

Gil’s arrival dissipates further discussion of Malcolm’s forced vacation time. Malcolm interrupts Gil once, and only once, when an urgent situation develops.

“Uh, JT, where did you get that box?” asks Malcolm.

“Courier dropped it off. Why?” answers JT.

The box addressed to Major Crimes bleeds onto the table in the situation room.

“Ho shit!”

“I’m done with people. Who this nasty.”

The contents include a hunk of uncooked meat carved into a gross and bloody Valentine.

“It’s a tongue. There is one less chatty person out there making small talk,” determines Edrisa.

“Whoever this is, they’ll send more, if it’s not a tasteless prank,” says Malcolm.

“Anything is tasteless when you don’t have taste buds,” says Edrisa.

“Why a Valentine, though? Someone got a crush on you, Gil?” says JT.

“If it’s human, see if you can get a match on the books. Dust the package for prints. Please and thank you, Edrisa. JT, since you made the most helpful insights, you help Bright document this incident. Powell, you look into any informants who recently disappeared.” Gil usually has her make the cold calls to skip paying for a dial-in interpreter in unofficial investigations.

“Why would someone do this, Bright?” asks Edrisa as they file out.

“No two people speak the same love language. The intention was sweet, I guess,” says Malcolm. He rubs his shoulder to hide the tell tale one sided shrug. He almost drops his phone when it buzzes but he picks up the call despite work hours.

Dani and JT exchange looks when they catch Malcolm blushing and preening his hair.

“Looks like our boy really did get out and meet people,” says JT.

“Twenty bucks says he made up with that Eve chick,” says Dani.

“I raise you thirty. Dude got a boyfriend,” challenges JT.

“You could send flowers or candy instead. It’s completely inappropriate when I’m working.” They overhear Malcolm. Dani frowns.

“Pay up, Dani. If that wasn’t Bright’s new boy toy sending him dick pics, you tell me what’s got that kid bothered.”

JT grins at Dani who adds a 10 dollar bill to the ante and whacks it into JT’s palm before she begins her wild goose chase for pranksters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Together at last. ^_^;;
> 
> I'mma keep going for one more chapter, exceeding my unrealistic minimum of four chapters. Malcolm and Paul just... wanna keep talking to each other.


	5. Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more uwu less boo hoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUICK RECAP OF CHAPTERS THUS FAR [LONG TIME NO POST]:
> 
> CH 1: Malcolm gets station wagon from Paul Lazar.  
> CH 2: Paul tells Malcolm about his puppy that died. Malcolm joins Crystal for visits with Isaac. Paul uses Malcolm's guilt to deflect from his own actions in the past.  
> CH 3: The Whitlys promise to help Eve find her sister. Gil and Malcolm argue. Malcolm suspended for 3 weeks. Paul walks in on Malcolm and Ian Turner fucking in hotel room. Paul disappears. Shannon drunkenly coerces Malcolm into the Junkyard to pursue The Surgeon's accomplice. Paul sticks Malcolm in car crusher.  
> CH 4: Paul gets Malcolm to kill and kill and killa kill...
> 
> Onward, to see the aftermath of Malcolm's twisted enslavement. Paul will NOT force Malcolm into non-consensual sex. Heh. I... uh, understand what can happen with this pairing.

“Where do I go from here, Paul?” says Malcolm. He survives his trials, but at the cost of innocent lives. 

Paul chortles. “I’ll take you back.”

“Home?” asks Malcolm. He doesn’t believe that Paul will let him go.

“To the beginning,” answers Paul. He walks Malcolm to a subway station and Malcolm watches him scope out the crowd for people who are lightweight, stoned, and not paying attention. They go from 175 Street Station to 125th Street on the A train. They take the B train bound for Manhattan along Sixth Avenue. Malcolm almost gets off at 86th Street but Paul stops him and they both get off together at 81st. 

The sycamores, beeches, and elm trees remain stripped of their leaves. Paul walks him past a synagogue, a pre-war apartment building, Teddy’s statue. He’s guided north and Paul leads him into an apartment building. Paul takes him into a utility elevator that stinks of hot garbage. A narrow beam from a pocket flashlight leaves Malcolm with no clue on where they are headed. It takes him everything not to pitch forward into a puddle of agony. He smells cold damp air, mildew, and rusty pipe work. Paul’s steps are brusque and he changes keys for each door without checking his ring. 

Paul grasps his shaking hand, makes him go up the stairs, from a basement and into his mother’s living room, and he’s out the door like the wind. “I’ll call you.”

“Katja, why is the front door wide open for any miscreant to--” Jessica Whitly pauses with an earring hovering around her chin. She is dressed in a blouse, pencil skirt, and a fat gold link necklace for her luncheon. “Where the hell have you been, Malcolm Whitly? Wherever you disappeared off to, you didn’t bring your medications. What are you wearing?”

“I was on a cold case.” Malcolm looks down a borrowed hoodie and his scuffed loafers. “Can you have Adolpho drop me off, Mother?”

“What’s happened to you, Malcolm? You are trembling.” If he tells her, she will act as any mother would. He thinks of Crystal Parker and her son Isaac. Malcolm knows that when he goes down, Jessica would hate that he lied to her in the name of protecting her. He must tell her something.

“My car is totaled,” says Malcolm.

“That old thing? I wouldn't consider it a loss,” says Jessica. She brushes a lock of auburn from her cheek before she reaches for him and grimaces at his unwashed hair. “You look like you killed somebody, dear.”

“I-- yes,” says Malcolm.

“Beg pardon. Are you agreeing that you killed somebody or that you merely look the part?” says Jessica. She latches onto Malcolm. “Sweetheart, did you hit someone? Was it hit-and-run?”

“God, no! I wouldn’t leave anyone on the road. Not like that,” refutes Malcolm.  
Jessica tugs at the hoodie and makes the rumpled hood lie flat. “Of course not. I raised you better than that."

Her motherly pride nearly crushes him, fleeting as it is.

"Promise me that you will find a psychiatrist who will adjust your medications. Neglecting basic hygiene on your vacation points to either depression or the great outdoors. Shall I check you for ticks?”

Like she used to care for Malcolm after Martin’s camping trips.

“Not necessary, Mother." No way is she seeing him stripped and beat to hell.

At home, Malcolm nurses frozen peas over his ribs which are floating inside the sack of shit that doesn’t feel like his own body. Malcolm pops naproxen like it’s going out of style and his stomach problems worsen the chemical maelstrom of playing catch up with his doses. 

Malcolm breathes when Gil texts him the name of a high profile victim-- Jules Connor who Malcolm recognizes as the incumbent district attorney of New York during his Harvard years. One of his classmates was related to Connor.

His ribs definitely break when the chase for Jules Connor's killer claims another victim-- Gil’s personal vehicle, the Le Mans. Malcolm shoots the window inside Connor’s office with the antique murder weapon and exits an exploding building with flair. His old friend Gil looks devastated as he shoulders aside unis and runs towards Malcolm who is lodged in the collapsed metal frame of the Le Mans. 

Malcolm can’t breathe through the roar of the machine crushing him inside a cold steel casket. The antique muzzle digs into his jaw. The gun’s lacquered walnut grip fills his hand. If his fingers twitch one-eighth of an inch, he can meet his maker. He can end it before Gil can stop him. 

“Hang in there, Bright. When I called you in, I wasn’t thinking that you would actually break your neck working for me,” says Gil. Gil pries the antique firearm from Malcolm’s numb grip. Gil’s fingers wrap around the life lines of Malcolm’s palm. Malcolm doesn’t cry from taking a beating. Yet feeling something that’s not pain triggers every part of himself that just won’t die. He doesn’t deserve Gil’s concern.

Gil would do the right thing, if Malcolm were to confess to his crimes in Paul Lazar’s junkyard. Even if it means that Internal will smear Gil starting with every homicide that Malcolm touched. JT and Dani would be under fire for at least one year’s performance. Every conviction under Major Crimes would be appealed by middling defense attorneys. All before they dig into personal correspondences of texts and emails to scrutinize Gil and Malcolm’s shared history.

“I’m sorry, Gil. Sorry,” says Malcolm, a whine rising in his throat.

“You will be. I’m sending the repair bill to your mother,” says Gil. His default cop attitude folds like playing cards as Malcolm cries in earnest. “Oh hell, kid. It’s okay. I’ll be okay if you get to walk away from this on those chicken legs of yours.”

“I’m going to catch the killer,” says Malcolm, as if he can make up for his sins. He makes his choice well before the tears abate. For the sake of everyone who’s given him a chance, Malcolm will use everything he’s learned as a federal agent to keep himself out of jail. He will suffer repentance without dragging in anyone else. Gil reminds Malcolm to take it easy.

* * *

In a game of Monopoly, Malcolm is doing his best developing houses on orange spaces, but Isaac’s liquid assets include all the single dollars of play money. Isaac charges Malcolm for the use of his single dollar bills.

“Give me twenty,” says Isaac.

“For four one dollar bills?” retorts Malcolm.

“It’s not real money,” points out Isaac.

“Mr. Bright, are you going to fight a little boy?” asks Crystal. 

Malcolm does worse than fight a child. He watches Isaac’s noverbals. When Isaac taps his fingers and leans forward, Malcolm swoops in and buys the coveted electric company. Crystal sells her assets to Isaac for one dollar each to get out of playing the game and Malcolm spends the last forty minutes losing to Isaac’s tyrannical housing prices.

“Great game,” smiles Isaac. “Friends?”

“Are you charging me for it,” says Malcolm. Despite his unhappiness, he and Isaac shake hands and move on to Jenga.

Crystal smiles through the car ride. She asked him to visit for dinner, so Malcolm is coming with. Dinner is chicken soup with half of a charred onion sitting in his broth alongside small leek, parsley, cabbage, and flower cut carrots; and homemade pasta noodles cooked with chunks of kielbasa, chopped onion, julienne carrots, and more cabbage. Malcolm happily nibbles on crescent cookies filled with strawberry jam.

“This is heavy, but good,” compliments Malcolm. 

“I don’t cook like this every day,” agrees Crystal. “I stick to chicken breasts and salmon but sometimes I binge eat pierogi.”  
They compare their workout programs.

“I use protein shakes as a crutch,” admits Malcolm.

“I hate drinking shakes, but the hunger after lifting is unreal. When I met Jake, he used to put his hands on my gut and say it looked like a donut. I burned off fat out of spite. Maybe a little too much. Now I have old lady face,” says Crystal.

“You’re being ridiculous, Crystal. You look great!” says Malcolm.

“But I would look better with a little filler under my eyes,” says Crystal.

“No. No nip, no tuck,” argues Malcolm.

“I want to look like a million bucks when Isaac gets out. Maybe we’ll move,” says Crystal.

“Smart,” says Malcolm. “Then he’ll be the new kid with the hot mom.”

Malcolm remembers how difficult it was for his beautiful mother to stay, and how impossible it was for her to hide from Dr. Whitly's shadow.

Crystal nudges him. "Oh, you."

“We would stay in New York. I could change neighborhoods. You wouldn’t have to miss him, after spending your time off with him the way you do. I’m so grateful for your visits. I’m going to miss them,” says Crystal.

“Crystal, when your son re-enters society, I will continue to visit. See how you are doing. All things considered, you’re very focused and independent and committed. And you could beat my cop friend in melee,” says Malcolm.

“Oh God, I’ll be alone forever,” bemoans Crystal.

“You had a boyfriend before your divorce settlement. Think you’re selling yourself short,” says Malcolm. He tries to perk her up.

“Could I get a guy like you, though?” says Crystal, stroking the stem of her wine glass.

“Why in heaven would you want me?” laughs Malcolm, ducking his face. “I’m not expecting preferential treatment. Whatever I give is for keeps.”

“I love giving,” says Crystal.

“I thought as much,” says Malcolm. He’s not surprised, having catalogued her make-up, the lines of her thigh high stockings through her knee-length skirt she picked for her son’s visitation, and the painted toes of her bare feet pointed at him for most of the evening. Malcolm slides his chair back, pausing as he reviews the politely worded “no thank you” on the tip of his tongue.

Crystal moves more quickly than his thoughts which stall at the reality of rejecting her. She uses the opening to drop to her knees and move his thighs. His blood pools agreeably beneath her swift attention. His belt stops pressing his full stomach when Crystal unbuckles him. Tired lines sink beneath the pleading look in her eyes. She moves as though she needs this and her fingers bypassing his zipper and stroking under his briefs convinces him, too.

Anticipation crests within Malcolm as her tongue pokes out from her lips and swirls the head of his cock. She sucks him easily because he’s not particularly big or thick and Malcolm readjusts his posture; doesn’t want to buck into her throat after the nice dinner she cooked for him. Crystal tugs down his pants when his buttocks briefly hover over the cushioned seat. Seeing that his balls are smooth, she purses her mouth along the flushed sac while she jerks the shaft of his cock, squeezing the tip. Malcolm slouches in the chair, rocking his body and spreading his thighs as far as his half done trousers will allow. His eyes roll as she cups his balls and lifts them to kiss and lap at his taint. The tip of her tongue flicks at his anus. He hasn’t been sucked since DC. Warm drool coats his delicate fleshy tip when Crystal bunches her skirt and sits on his cock. He feels her soft pubic hairs brush his underside before her slick pussy enfolds him. 

Crystal bounces on his lap until his breaths shorten and his fingers slide under the back of her skirt, clamping her ass. Malcolm comes in a hot gush but she doesn’t orgasm. His thumb and his forefinger circle her clit and he utters encouragement while he’s dripping from inside her. He tells her what he loves to hear from other partners. “Give in, Crystal. I was very generous when I filled you.” Malcolm tilts her head, makes sure his blue eyes are the only things she can see when he triggers her. “Take your reward and come on me. Give me what I want. Make it good. Be good for me.” 

When that doesn’t work, Malcolm slowly twists her arm, angling her wrist until her thumb points away from her body. The unexpected pressure on her radioulnar joint makes her gasp and warm juices slick Malcolm’s thigh. Though he prefers dominant men, Malcolm adapts his seductive technique when he's in a rare mood for masochistic women.

He knows about pain points and how to press them for mutual satisfaction.

“Fuck, who taught you that?” says Crystal. She staggers off of him, rotates her aching shoulder, and grinds against the dinner table.

“I was well trained by instructors,” answers Malcolm. “Not as diligent as I was in my school years.” He smiles when she hands him a kitchen towel damp with warm water. “Thank you for a lovely dinner. Unexpected, but very nice.”

“We try,” says Crystal. “And before you ask, I’m over forty. This close to menopause, you’re not knocking me up.”

“You took a big risk with me,” says Malcolm. He cleans himself quickly and does up his clothes. “I prefer condoms, for my peace of mind. As much as I enjoyed dinner, I insist on using them. For future visits that are not at all obligatory.”

“Shut up, Mr. Bright. I'm not doing you for your money. I figured cuz we get along, why not?” says Crystal. “Next time, I’ll show you what I learned from Jake. You could use a practice buddy, couldn’t you?”

“I’d like that. It would be a good outlet for us both,” says Malcolm. “Though I suspect young Isaac will lose respect for me if you consistently take me down.”

“My son never finds out about us,” says Crystal in all seriousness. “Or I’ll really kick your ass.”

“I can keep a secret,” says Malcolm, trying on a smile that’s too tight for dimples or laugh lines.

* * *

He expects, maybe hopes, that Paul will murder him. Malcolm candidly tells him about Crystal when they're alone inside the garage with the aluminum doors locked. Paul strikes Malcolm's chest and he watches Malcolm double over and dry heave from the leftover tenderness of his mended bones. Paul’s blackened hands stain Malcolm's waistcoat. 

"You're a goddamn whore," condemns Paul, shaking his hand. "You'll screw anything that moves. That's the third person you've screwed that I know about."

"You make it… make it sound like I cheated on you," pouts Malcolm. "Paul, are we in a relationship?"

"We've always had a connection. Even with Martin locked away, you and me can't stay away from each other," says Paul. He grabs Malcolm's hair, makes Malcolm stand up straight despite Malcolm's pained breaths. "What's it going to take for you to be loyal? I don't want you with anyone else. You're mine to have. Do you have a problem with that?"

"I need a lot of attention, Paul. I'm not someone who flourishes when I'm left to my own devices with an abundance of free time," says Malcolm, watery eyes sharp and alert with physical agony radiating from the center of his body. "If you want for us to be together, Paul… It has to be you that calls the shots. I don't have limits. You have to tell me what I can't do." Malcolm remains painfully honest despite his trials.

"No more screwing around," says Paul. "You keep yourself beautiful and pure for me." He cups Malcolm's face, bending it forward before he kisses Malcolm's forehead. "From here on out, I'm keeping you on a short leash."

"You're keeping me after all the women and men who had me?" asks Malcolm. His voice pitches low. "I love being dirty, Paul. That's not going to ever change." Malcolm reaches for the front of Paul's coveralls and slowly rubs downward, aiming below the belt.

Paul grips Malcolm's hands, squeezing them hard. The roughened calluses under the base of his fingers scrape at Malcolm's softer and smaller hands. "Malcolm, no."

Frustration and dashed hopes darken Malcolm's cheeks. "You're seriously not going to fuck me?"

"Gotta starve the flesh," says Paul. He chuckles and kisses Malcolm's cheek. Malcolm turns his head and forces his lips onto Paul's. Paul manages to keep Malcolm at arm's length, avoids pressing their bodies, while returning the kiss ardently, in a way that heats up Malcolm's neck.

"Paul," begs Malcolm when they pause for air. He reads passion and urgent want on Paul's face.

"No, Malcolm. For your own good, I don't condone your sins. Let's take this underground," says Paul.

"Do you have someone already?" asks Malcolm. He means if Paul stashed another person in his buried Winnebago.

"God sent me another damned soul. You'll feel better after we deliver her," coaxes Paul. "Do you need Tylenol or can you handle it? She's a pitiful thing, wasted from meth. She doesn't bite. Can't bite, with two teeth stuck on her gums."

"Lead the way, Paul," says Malcolm.

Paul's arms snake around him when Malcolm wields a sharpened knife. Malcolm petulantly slices the victim's throat from ear to ear. He ensures that her torture is over, but he makes it messier than usual inside the Winnebago. Blood gushes down Malcolm's arm and it arches in streaks onto Paul's coveralls.

"You're going to clean this up," Paul whispers. His breath skitters across the back of Malcolm's neck in the cramped space. Malcolm feels like he’ll never get away from Paul.

"Fine," says Malcolm, resentment stiffening his tone. "Aren't you going to let me go? Since I'm dirty and all."

"I want us to be close, Malcolm. I crave intimacy with you. We're in a relationship. Which means you're going to put up with me and how I want to do things." 

"And if I want out?" challenges Malcolm.

"I'll destroy everyone and everything that makes you want to live apart from me," answers Paul, deliberate and thoughtful. "Then I'll wait for you to come around. I’ve learned patience."

Paul's hand is warm and sticky around Malcolm's throat. He inhales possessively; the press of his unkempt beard and his unyielding closeness perversely makes Malcolm feel wanted. 

Malcolm deletes phone numbers when he returns to the loft. Before he changes out of his soiled dress shirt, Malcolm calls Crystal to inform her that he is no longer available for anything besides friendship. He sags with relief when Crystal actually thanks him for communicating upfront; then she switches topic, to Isaac’s newest roommate whose nickname is Bunny.

* * *

He’s second guessing himself too much at work. Though Malcolm remains sharp, his judgment is like the needle of a busted compass. The only one for Malcolm to confide in is Paul. Perched on the workbench of Paul’s garage, Malcolm rants on his job performance anxieties. Instead of dredging for niceties to say, Paul surprises Malcolm with an offer that he can’t refuse.

“How’s about we go someplace where no one will find us?” says Paul. He grips Malcolm’s wrists, pinning him to the rough wooden surface. Malcolm’s leg muscles cramp up and his arms shake from the sudden fear of how thoroughly Paul ensnares him.

“Please,” begins Malcolm. When Paul’s nose tips between Malcolm’s dress shirt collar and into the exposed hollow of Malcolm’s throat, Malcolm gulps down words sprung from his desire.

“It’s time that I finish what we started, little Malcolm. I know what’ll put an end to your misery. Why you’re broken even as a man,” says Paul. His promise bleeds warm around Malcolm’s neck. “Just you wait.”

The phone call from Gil interrupts their quiet chat.

“A murder? Thank God,” breathes Malcolm. He evades the scolding behind Paul’s frown and waves goodbye before he talks fast, repeating after Gil to confirm the level of carnage awaiting him.

When Malcolm eventually returns to the loft, he is nauseated by the late lunch which Gil pushed on him. While undressing for a shower, he finds the grease spot in the cotton cashmere blend.

Their first planned trip is thwarted from the ensuing clusterfuck of Ainsley’s interview with the Surgeon. Malcolm gets caught up in a lethal merry-go-round mystery which culminates in his mother Jessica detained in Claremont with a ceramic shank embedded in Martin, tangled in his knitted sweater (and Cory Wheaton caught by the NYPD). 

Martin drops the charges against his ex-wife when he extorts further visitations from Malcolm post-surgery, usurping Paul’s next chance to hit the road.

“Surely you’ve learned the art of small talk in the school of hard knocks,” says Martin over one of Malcolm’s compulsory lunch dates. Martin taps the corners of his mouth with a brown paper napkin. “I would rather suffer cold food than tepid conversation.”

“Very well, Dr. Whitly. Million dollar question. Did you know Sophie Sanders?”

“Who is she?” asks Martin.

“She’s been missed since ‘98,” answers Malcolm. “You could say that Ms. Sanders, as a missing person, is involved in one of Mother’s charity projects. Mother will reward anyone who comes forward with information about her.”

Martin snorts. “As stunningly well-endowed as your mother is, I doubt she’d reward _me_. What have I to do with a paltry million when I had it all, my boy?”

“I thought you might like to relive your glory days, Dr. Whitly, when you had a loving family and friends with common interests to take the pressure off,” says Malcolm. “It helped, didn’t it? A confidant who witnessed for you and mirrored acceptance. Exhilaration. Perhaps an interest in carrying on with the mission.”

“Who have you been talking to, son?” retorts Martin, leaning in and wetting his lips.

“I don’t know,” says Malcolm. “You’re the only one who can tell me what happened. To me. Please, Dad. The girl.”

“Malcolm. You’ve come this far. I’d hate to trigger another spiral into yesteryear. You can’t live in the past. Like I said, the dead--”

“They have the right to stay dead,” echoes Malcolm. “If I made up the girl in the box, then none of it was real. The knife. The river.”

“Come back to me, Malcolm. I’m here for you. I can be the father you need. You can come to me for anything,” assures Martin. He forgets his place at the table. Martin’s chains rattle as they curtail his reach.

Malcolm knocks over his fork and water glass. Water stains the woven Oriental rug, seeping in like Martin’s touch on his hand. For once, Malcolm’s hand doesn’t shake. It’s Martin who is doubled over trembling, the pads of his fingers over Malcolm’s pulse.

“Uh uh. No touching, Dr. Whitly,” interrupts Mr. David, on guard.

“It’s fine,” insists Malcolm. “I’m fine, I promise.”

Malcolm’s head is swimming when Martin declares, “Call the press. I believe my son and I have had a breakthrough.”

* * *

No one has to die this time for Malcolm to go on vacation, but his phone shatters on the sidewalk when Paul appears out of nowhere. Paul pretty much kidnaps Malcolm from his front door after the disastrous prison visit with his father.

“Okay, but seriously, Paul? You shouldn’t have just grabbed me. It’s called a kidnapper van for a reason,” protests Malcolm. He airs out his grievances about Sunshine’s pet care arrangements.

“We both deserve a little rest and relaxation. All work and no play,” chuckles Paul as he drives his Dodge van to a progressively remote location. He winks on the fog lights as mist enfolds the green and yellow treetops blurring past Malcolm’s passenger mirror. The wheels tightly hug the interstate winding around picturesque knolls.

“Who’s in the back of the van?” asks Malcolm.

“It’s just you and me this time. No third wheel,” informs Paul before he smiles big. “Now there’s an idea.”

With his damaged phone essentially reduced to an overpriced flashlight, Malcolm fixates on the natural scenery. The rosy sky fades as the golden pink sun descends into spring valleys. When Malcolm closes his eyes, he soaks in the earthy fragrance of rainwater trapped in the leaves, needles, and twigs covering the mineral soil. Memories stir from the scent of the mountainside forested with sugar maples, beech, and yellow birch trees.

“What’s the matter, little Malcolm?” asks Paul. Van keys go onto the carabiner hooked onto the waist of his gray coverall.

Malcolm shivers despite the three layers of fabric beneath his suit jacket. “Why did you take me here, of all places?”

“You tell me,” shoots back Paul. He swings open a rear cargo door and shrugs on a long windbreaker jacket; he won’t let Malcolm peek inside.

“This is my father’s secondary killing grounds, isn’t it?” says Malcolm, sharply breathing the thin mountain air.

“Yes, Malcolm. It would’ve been all yours, too,” answers Paul. He draws near to Malcolm. “It’s time.”

As Malcolm follows Paul’s lead, the forest soil becomes rockier underfoot, trickier to negotiate in his dress shoes. He wishes that Paul had kidnapped him in workout clothes.

The noise of water rushing reaches their ears before Paul takes him to the riverside. The river is as broad as two men lying down long ways.

“Dr. Whitly took me to a similar place for trout and bass,” says Malcolm, halting his steps as he recognizes the inclines and flora colorations.

“Perch, too,” adds Paul. He rubs his stomach. “Nothing like perch after a full day of hunting. Salmon’s good, but we’re too early for their migration.”

“Hunting what, pray tell?”

Paul winks at him. Then he pops open a switchblade, the tip of it aimed at Malcolm. “Get your clothes off.”

Malcolm observes no arousal in Paul’s demeanor. Paul doesn’t rush him or threaten him. Malcolm loosens up his trousers first and steps out of his shoes, careful not to slip on the wet rocks. He tucks his socks inside the leather shoes. He bunches his briefs and rolls up his trousers; muscle memory takes over from years of packing up.

“Can you take this?” requests Malcolm, holding out his entire outfit.

Paul throws the clothes into a plastic black trash bag and knots it closed. His preparations ramp up Malcolm’s paranoia. Paul approaches Malcolm once more. Malcolm’s face crumples, eyes screwing shut, when Paul’s knife breaks the skin. Blood trickles from the shallow cut inches below his left nipple.

“Get in,” instructs Paul, waving the blooded knife toward the waters. He is dead calm.

Malcolm’s bare feet smear more red upon the rocky surface. He crouches low to keep balance even as sharp edges and tough brambles prick at his soles. He wades in until the current bubbles around his thighs.

Malcolm is oddly relieved when he looks over his shoulder and sees Paul standing watchful. It warms him even as the sunshine abandons him to icy waters. Soon, Malcolm is numb and blind.

“What do I do?” he calls out.

Paul doesn’t answer. Fear leaves him cold.

“Paul!”

He gropes toward the riverbed and trips, dunking himself unintentionally. He snorts up freshwater and he claws at his wet hair stinging his eyes. The air saps more warmth from his drenched body.

“Paul!” he chokes. He’s alone for a long time.

The rushing river disguises the drag of footfalls on loose rocks. Malcolm imagines many things, including himself freezing to death in the spring. He doubts his senses when he hears the big splash. Then darkness takes hold of him, in the cotton texture of a mechanic’s coverall, in the firm shape of Paul’s encircled arms.

“Paul, get me out of here,” stutters Malcolm. He presses desperately against the PVC of Paul’s chest waders.

“Cherish the moment,” says Paul. “Let the water cleanse away your sins.”

He kisses Malcolm’s brow, soft and steady, as the rocks roll and shift beneath them.

“Over twenty years ago, I was dead in the water. Cast away like a millstone. There is no good reason for why I came out alive. I wasn’t the same coming out as I was falling in. instead of dying, I was born again. I’ve come a long way since stitching myself up with a rusty hook.”

Paul laughs at Malcolm’s silence. “Why did I bring you to this place?”

“R-ritual killings. Rituals. For your religion,” answers Malcolm. “Th-this is your rebirth.”

“No, Malcolm. My rebirth was twenty years ago in this river. It’s my river. I wasn’t cast away but set aside for Godly work. I’m here today to witness for you. This is your rebirth. You are my first.”

“F-first?”

“For baptism,” whispers Paul, reverently. His palms skim down the sides of Malcolm’s dripping head. “It’s time for you to die to yourself. Give up your old way of thinking.”

“I’m not quitting my job,” refuses Malcolm point blank.

Paul barks another laugh. “No, little Malcolm. I wouldn’t take work from a man. But your daddy issues, they gost to go.”

“How,” says Malcolm. He doesn’t believe that Paul can accomplish what a fleet of child psychologists couldn’t.

“Make peace with your father,” Paul tells him, like he’s simple.

“No.” He’s rewarded with a punch to his cheek.

Paul jerks him around and bends him like a reed, wet sleeve around his middle and fist tearing at the nape of Malcolm’s hair. Paul strangles Malcolm as the black water rushes through him. Malcolm writhes, thrashes, and drowns.

He gurgles through the blood in his throat when Paul raises him up.

“Forgive him! Forgive Martin!”

“I’d rather--” His screams die, raked away by the current. The back of his right leg cramps up from bearing his weight. His taut buttocks stick to the rubber waders outfitting Paul.

“Submit!” cries Paul. His knuckles punch into Malcolm’s abdomen, beating on Malcolm’s chest, striking him like a wet drum, pounding him like raw clay.

Hell, Malcolm learns, is one million icicles searing his mortified flesh like fire, fanned mightier by the breath of his dying gasps.

“Yes, fine. Fine,” retches Malcolm. His jaw crackles like dead wood from how violently his body shivers. He doesn’t mean any of it.

“Do you forgive Martin Whitly for ruining your life?” repeats Paul.

He can smell blood in the water, his prickling nose a slim breadth from the churning surface, and he weakens.

“Fine. I do. For. Give.” His teeth rattle inside his waterlogged skull.

Paul saves him from the water, patting his tender cheek and cradling his chin. His sobs dribble down the back of his throat. Malcolm’s nose burrows into Paul’s neck, seeking refuge in all the wrong ways.

“Oof, that is cold!” exclaims Paul. Once more he lowers Malcolm into the water, but not by the throat. He shushes Malcolm who latches onto him, nails scraping at Paul’s clothes, and gradually dips Malcolm backwards into a stilted float. “Relax, sweet little. All your sins washed. You will be clean.”

Paul cups his hand in the river and brings it over Malcolm’s bloodless forehead. He prays clamorously for Malcolm’s soul, rebukes Malcolm’s demons, begs for heaven. Pairs of eyes oscillate in yellow flashes which fade into darkness and locusts. “Behold,” whispers Paul, his face damp. He tilts his head and raises his hand, presenting Malcolm like an offering to heaven. “A new creation.”

* * *

After Paul baptizes Malcolm, he switches on the headlamp fastened to his head. Paul’s graying hair is flattened by a perpetual case of helmet head despite the absent ball cap. Malcolm’s eyes water from the light, so he avoids looking into Paul’s face. Paul swaths a large beach towel around Malcolm’s nude form. The numbness recedes as Paul guides him through wilderness. His in-steps land on every prickly twig. His toes stub every sharpish rock. Roots and vines snarl his ankle.

“How do you find so much trouble walking in a straight line?” wonders Paul.

“That a fire?” questions Malcolm. An orange glow radiates through tree gaps and silhouettes of brush.

“We’ve got to warm you up. Wouldn’t want you to freeze,” says Paul. He brings Malcolm to a bronze fire pit already crackling with logs. The bronze fire pit isn’t far from the rear end of Paul’s van. The campfire is reflected on the driftwood colored cargo doors. A wire mesh covers the blaze, catching any embers when the wooden logs pop. The air smells of charred wood and citronella melting in bucket-sized candles to repel the bugs.

Malcolm remains unsteady on his legs. Paul brings him a short lawn chair and more towels. Malcolm merely exists at the fireside while Paul strips off the rubber chest wader and the strappy headlamp. Malcolm accepts a thermos full of warm beverage, but only after Paul takes a swig.

The first cautious sip surges down his gullet and curls up most agreeably in Malcolm’s tummy. “What is in this?” He gets a big hit of cocoa.

“Oh, it’s blessed with butterscotch Schnapps and rum,” says Paul. His lips twitch in amusement as he rubs at his dark and unruly beard. “Thought you would appreciate something a wee bit stronger than milk.”

“I was half expecting ketamine,” says Malcolm. “I’m so tired. That could also be the hypothermia at this altitude.”

“No drugs,” responds Paul. “You weren’t in the water that long. Wanna know how quickly I broke you?”

“Hard pass. Pathological lying is a key clinical feature of the antisocial personality,” says Malcolm. His fingertips sting from the smooth, warm, roundness of the thermos.

Paul shrugs off Malcolm’s words. He lets Malcolm thaw out while he prepares a quick meal. Tomato soup simmers in a saucepan over the hot wire mesh protecting them from embers. Paul throws down foil wrapped sandwiches as well.

Malcolm feels delirious when he unwraps the aluminum. The sliced bread is already cut diagonally. He gets too much satisfaction from pulling the bread apart and stretching the melted cheese before dipping it into a non-biodegradable Styrofoam bowl containing tomato soup. 

“You, sir, are a pizza addict,” quips Malcolm. He feels safe opening his mouth after eating all of Paul’s food.

“Is that the best that the FBI can do?” retorts Paul.

“Well, why do you eat so much bread, tomato sauce, and cheese? Is it because that’s what your maternal parent bought for you as a very young child? After getting her fix. No kitchen to cook. Two beds and a coffee machine in motels before you were placed with her Catholic parents.”

“Do you always talk about people’s mothers on dates?” huffs Paul.

Paul’s retort gives Malcolm pause. With mortifying recall, Malcolm thinks back to Amsterdam Billiards with Eve. “I do. I so do. Occupational hazard of behavioral sciences.”

Paul laughs when Malcolm questions him. “This is your idea of a romantic outing, Paul?”

“You take ‘em swimming at least once, and see what’s under the make-up,” snickers Paul.

“Paul! Make-up is great. I fully endorse eye cream,” says Malcolm, tapping his puffy under eyes. The spiked hot chocolate renders him silly.

“You’re beautiful, Malcolm.” Paul brushes the fine lines crinkling the delicate skin beneath Malcolm's haunted look.

Of the two of them, Paul is infinitely more comfortable and at home. He scuffles to the van. A beam of incandescent light shines on the ground when Paul cracks open the van’s cargo door and retrieves an acoustic guitar. It’s a six-string with natural light wood. Paul’s lips move to keep time, but he doesn’t sing.

“Do you play any?” asks Paul.

Malcolm doesn’t really want to talk or think about stringing together a sentence when the air feels alive, resonant with music.

“A little on the piano, but I’m more proficient on reading music sheets,” answers Malcolm.

“Lemme riff you some Coldplay,” says Paul. He stands up and turns to Malcolm. The logo _Martin_ emblazoned over the tuning pegs shines like gold in the campfire. 

“I think I’ve got the intro down. You hammer on the first fret to third fret on the second string. A string and E string together.” Paul’s index and ring finger curl into the strings. His hand slides to the first fret on the second string. He moves his thumb. “F chord. First fret on your top string. Third fret and second fret on fourth and third strings. Not bad, yeah?”

In gentle light, Malcolm sees a glimmer of Paul, younger, playing alone for hours. Days without being missed by any parental figures.

A glad expression takes over Paul’s naturally downcast features when he finds Malcolm to be a responsive listener. “This bit here. A minor to F to C. Then E minor 7. And C to G.”

_When I'm cold_  
_There's a light that you give me_  
_There's a feeling of ever, everglow_

As Paul plays the chords to a verse, Malcolm absentmindedly matches lyrics in time with the down strums.

“Sing it louder,” complains Paul, startling Malcolm out of his reverie. “I know you can. You are one hell of a screamer. Let me hear you.”

“I don’t sing,” disagrees Malcolm.

“Liar. I’mma loop around to the chorus again. Jump in with me,” says Paul. “I wasn’t planning for this to be a sing-along, but we sound good together.”

Face hot, Malcolm lets Paul string him along. Having fun with a serial killer, Malcolm understands, is highly illegal. He doesn’t protest when Paul stops playing music.

“Wait until you see what I got for you,” Paul tells him. They don’t have a tent. Dread coils in his gut when Paul spins the guitar behind himself, secured by the strap. Paul throws open the van cargo doors with both hands free.

Malcolm cringes, expecting a sedated victim wrapped in tarp. When he looks, the interior of the van is decorated with small hanging light bulbs. The power cord is plugged into a small generator which Paul lugs from the cargo area to the flat dirt. Icicle lights powered by batteries sit balled up in randomly sized mason jars that are clear or tinted blue. 

White carnations are bunched into small glass jugs ideal for home brewed alcohol. The jars of flowers and lights are lined up on the cargo area, a tight fit beside the full sized mattress. A large man-sized blanket drapes the mattress, which turns out to be an inflatable air mattress.

“Get in, Malcolm. Go on,” he coaxes.

Malcolm gradually peels off the damp towels heavy from the river water. Paul gets the blanket around him. The blanket is pink, mint green, white, and yellow. The Easter colors oddly work with the plain white carnations and the blue-ish white icicle lights.

“This blanket is familiar,” blurts Malcolm. “Can I see that picture again. Kept in your wallet?”

“You remembered,” says Paul, awed. He readily produces the damaged photo of himself as a young boy with his puppy. Malcolm nods when he observes the ripple stitch blanket in the photo.

“That’s what I thought. The yellow doesn’t show up as well on the film, but I remember the pink, mint, and white,” says Malcolm.

"Gam Gam crocheted this whole thing before I was born. She was so worried that she said a prayer for me every time she picked it up. As you can see, she prayed a lot. I grew up in this thing. She read me the Old Testament and then when her eyes went really bad, I read the Gospel back to her." Like a river running over, so much of Paul fills the cozy space which he created for Malcolm.

Malcolm sees the red initials MW embroidered onto a sewn patch. 

"That’s my Gam Gam’s initials. Matilda Watkins. But it could be Malcolm Watkins, if you want. Would you marry me?"

“Paul…” gasps Malcolm.

“John. My name’s Johnnie. Will you marry me, Malcolm Whitly? Forsake your father’s name, for me?”

“John,” repeats Malcolm.

“You know... I hate the name John. It's what my whore mother chose for me, like the Johns that picked her up. But when you say it, Malcolm, it feels new.”

“What did you mean when you said I was marked for love?” Malcolm can’t resist a game of Johnnie on the spot.

“I dunno how to put it.”

“Tell me anyway. In your own words.”

“It’s your skin and your eyes and your hair. I always want to look at you. Could look at you everyday. That’s how come I says that.”

“You mean like this? Is that what you see now?” Malcolm opens the blanket, spreading it on either side of his nude body and lets John look at him as is. His face and neck are flushed from Buttercup Schnapps and rum. Malcolm’s hair is unruly from John’s violence. Blood darkens like a purple stem beneath the bruise on Malcolm’s cheek, blooming green where John struck him. Malcolm’s abdomen is speckled reddish-purple where John bent and beat him for his rebirth.

John scoots closer and cradles Malcolm’s jaw like he’s caught a dove. John kisses Malcolm’s forehead, then his brow. Malcolm’s lids shut as he focuses on the tender sensations. John’s whiskers skim the hollows of his eyes. John kneels and tips his face before giving his lips to Malcolm in a kiss darker than cocoa and spiked with heat. Their cheeks rub and John’s beard catches in Malcolm’s long stubble. John’s fingers, hardened from labor and incessant tinkering, root into Malcolm’s damp hair. John’s touch warms Malcolm from the chill imparted by the river water.

“Marry me,” pleads John.

“I already belong to you. You cheated and stole me,” accuses Malcolm.

“You kept coming back. There’s only so much a man can take. I was either going to make you dead or make you mine. End you or finish you.”

“You’re asking for the impossible, John. Barring the Catholic Church’s stance on same-sex marriage, on a personal level, marrying you would be a mistake. You do realize that we would have to meet each other’s families and our relatives will be obligated to mingle. You would have to go through my mother and her spiel on grandchildren. And then there’s my father--” Malcolm’s objections spill out faster than he can breathe in.

John smacks his cheek a couple times, more so to gain Malcolm’s attention than to inflict pain.

“If you didn’t love me, Malcolm, I wouldn’t ask,” says John. “What’sa matter? You don’t think I’d make a good husband?” His hand settles on the side of Malcolm’s neck, watching Malcolm intently as though he might never see Malcolm again.

A near decade of field work warns Malcolm not to refuse. Malcolm analyzes how John’s thumb traces his skin to memorize the texture of Malcolm’s being; the affection draining from John’s amorous gaze; and the tension in his mouth as his lips pinch together in anticipation of rejection, waiting on Malcolm to break his heart before snapping Malcolm’s neck in retaliation.

As far as John is concerned, Malcolm will belong to him forever, in spirit if necessary. Malcolm’s answer is life or death. John is totally insane, but Malcolm sees his best chance in appealing to John’s practical nature.

“I want a partner who will sleep with me. You can court me as much as you want, but eventually, I need to have sex and plenty of it, Johnnie. Would you give it to me good? Would you be my lover?” He’s breathless, all his blood pooled between his legs, firming his cock, tightening his ass. Malcolm feels goosebumps on his arms and chest, completely naked as his own words intensify so much yearning.

“Would if I could, little Malcolm.” John releases Malcolm and sits up. His face turns to the orange flames diminished in the bronze fire pit. His left hand covers his right fist, head and shoulders sinking forward until his beard covers his knuckles.

Malcolm sits up as well, but he pulls the crocheted blanket up to his shoulders when he sees all of John’s walls raised to high heaven.

“Hey, I showed you mine. Why aren’t you giving me anything back?” demands Malcolm. This time, he’s biting his lip in frustration. Malcolm is displeased to be sharing a cold mattress with someone who feels like he’s a million miles away.

“This is what I get for popping the question without a ring,” barks John with an embittered laugh.

“I didn’t say no, did I? No, I didn’t. I would say that I’m handling your marriage proposal really fucking well considering what you did to me,” says Malcolm. He nudges his shoulder into John who is sulking. “Look, if I wasn’t seriously considering saying yes, I wouldn’t be talking. Because you would’ve killed me. But that’s beside the point.”

“I don’t want to hear your psychobabble,” says John. “Just forget it.”

Malcolm lays his head onto John who remains despondent. The ripple stitch pattern of John’s blanket presses Malcolm’s skin. “So, on the queer spectrum, I’m a bisexual cisgender male and a recovering emotional masochist. How would you identify yourself, John?”

“I don’t have sex,” answers John.

“Yet you enjoy screwing over your victims,” says Malcolm. He smirks when John bares his teeth in outrage. “Just to clarify, you don’t have sex with people or objects which includes murder victims?”

“No, I don’t! I don’t… haven’t done--”

“John Watkins, what do you feel about me?” asks Malcolm. “I realize that I’m maybe coming off as patronizing, but I could be misreading your actions toward me. Most people would say that planning a getaway trip with music and flowers is romantic. But clearly, you are not most people. It’s not inconceivable that you researched marriage proposals on the internet and copied a romantic person’s actions. Have you ever felt romantic emotions toward me?”

“Sure I do,” answers John.

“Okay, you’re doing great. We can rule out aromantic,” responds Malcolm.

Malcolm keeps going, full speed ahead. “Do you feel any sexual attraction to me, at all?”

“Yeah, no,” says John. His brows knit together and he ruffles his greasy hair.

“Could it be that you find my youthful appearance and physical health appealing for purposes of serial co-killing? But you don’t want to engage in oral sex or be labeled as a sodomizer?”

“Stop talking for me and let me think for myself,” growls John. “Firstly, you were beautiful before I ever saw you kill anyone.”

“Did you find me more attractive when I was a child?”

“Hell no!” yells John, grabbing Malcolm and shaking him. “You were the worst kind of killjoy brat. Someone ought to have wrung your neck.”

“Good to know,” says Malcolm, eyes alight with satisfaction. His lips spread in a genuine smile, relieved to rule out paraphila and pedophila. He makes a soft noise when John pulls him into a kiss, taking him with such zeal that the shaggy hairs of John’s beard rasp his chin. Malcolm loses balance and John takes advantage, pinning him flat on the air mattress. The crocheted blanket heats up quickly even as the thickly woven fibers deprive Malcolm of direct contact with John’s clothed body heavy and on top of him.

If not for the blanket ensnaring his legs like a fuzzy net, Malcolm would be wrapping himself around John. His hips buck in futility, finding no relief with his prick hard up against more blanket. He can feel the yarn bunched snugly around his balls, brushing feather light over his taint in a cloying tease which he can do nothing about.

“Touch me, John. God, please,” groans Malcolm. He arches fiercely when John’s fingers rake through his hair, hungry for the sensation of rough hands down his chest and clamped around him. He’s gasping, too aroused to breathe right, as John tears away the blanket and lets in the night air. 

“Shush. I’ll do what I want with you.” John grips Malcolm’s wrists. John pants heavily, the skin of his neck and ears turning a bright red. Malcolm is impatient when John fixates on his neck. Too much tongue and John isn’t hitting his pulse points. Malcolm’s nipples peak into hard nubs from John’s beard scouring his throat. The muscles of Malcolm’s abdomen jump when John kisses between his nipples and then slowly rubs his lips against the dark pink skin around his nipples. Malcolm exclaims sharply when John’s teeth snap and pull back too quickly. His vision blurs from the involuntary teardrops, blinded to John’s dismayed frown.

“Too much?”

“Yeah, you might’ve torn my nipple,” whispers Malcolm. When he blinks tears out of his clumped lashes, his chin touches his chest. His abused flesh burns persistently, disfigured within John’s teeth marks. “You did tear me.”

“Then I better do the other one,” says John with a wolfish grin.

Malcolm fights in earnest, pushes at John’s hands weighing down his arms but John has him by the teeth. His scream cuts short into pained moans when his chest throbs. His torn nipples swell with pain when he inhales. John’s callused palm bumping it unintentionally draws more tears.

“John, no more. You made your point.”

“Listen to you squeal,” comments John. He leaves off of injuring Malcolm any further, contenting himself with gentler motions. John’s fingers skim up and down Malcolm’s underarms, fanning out along the rib lines, looser as he explores lower. He appears more curious than anything when he caresses Malcolm’s navel, brushing circles in random patterns around Malcolm’s groin. Malcolm instinctively folds up his knees when John’s thumbs rub at the vee of his legs, hips stuttering without more space to roll and nothing to grind into.

“Jesus, just touch me already,” pleads Malcolm.

“That is what I’m doing,” says John. He squeezes Malcolm’s inner thighs and cups the exterior curve of Malcolm’s buttocks before thumbing more circles on the mounds right next to his cleft. His movements lack urgency and he is very obviously avoiding Malcolm’s cock.

Malcolm throws an arm over his own sweaty, contorted face. His eye, blackened by John, throbs with pain. “Tentatively, I wanna say you’re romantic asexual. The absence of your erection is pretty definitive. I will leave demisexual open as an option. Maybe over time, you may adapt a physical response to intimacy as we bond through future difficulties.”

Malcolm barely stifles a yawn.

“Do you want to sleep?” asks John. He rubs Malcolm’s leg before straightening it, the pads of his fingers roving behind Malcolm’s calf and the soft area behind Malcolm’s knee.

“It would help if I came,” says Malcolm wryly. “But we can’t always get what we want.”

Though John kicks the van doors closed, Malcolm doesn’t stay warm enough due to the many gaps in the blanket. John undoes the front of his coverall, rolls out of his sleeves, and lowers the top portion. Then he cuddles up with Malcolm. John’s grayed wife beater stays on, but it’s more of the odd man than Malcolm has ever had the privilege to eyeball. A large thickly bolded outline of a cross several inches long graces John’s upper left arm. John has another tattoo inked on his right forearm, but its curved shape and crooked lines are not as easily discernible.

Malcolm’s piqued curiosity and John’s breath, beard, and lip on the back of his neck make Malcolm fidget restlessly. His hands close in around John’s, fingers settling between John’s knuckles. Malcolm nestles his ass into John’s crotch and weighs his options when his deliberate teasing doesn’t garner any kind of twitch.

“What’s it like in your head, John? That you want to be in a committed relationship with someone who you wouldn’t have sex with? Is it because I’m a man? Is murder your only outlet? How do you know that you want me?”

“Hell of a time for you to play 21 questions,” grumbles John.

Malcolm rolls over until he’s on his side, facing John against a backdrop of string lights and illuminated flowers. Malcolm fixates on the strange mark tattooed on John’s right forearm. It looks like a crescent moon sunken into a black river alongside John’s vein. “Okay, easy question. What’s this tattoo?”

“Oh, this old thing? Is a sickle,” explains John. “The guy charged me almost nothing because they needed the practice. It doesn’t look like what I asked for.”

John reaches for him and pats his brown hair. His fingertips glide down Malcolm’s spine and his curled fingers brush Malcolm’s lower back. His hand settles on Malcolm’s hip, splayed on curved musculature rounded out by fat.

“Is sex a deal breaker for you, Malcolm? Will you turn me down if I tell you that I don’t get hard?”

“I would need to sleep with other people. But I can guess what your stance is on open relationships,” says Malcolm.

“I don’t believe in free love. It’s adultery, plain and simple. I would kill you if you ever cuckold me,” swears John. He grasps Malcolm possessively in a firm and heavy kiss. Malcolm moans in pain as John’s wife beater presses his torn nipples, almost wailing when John palms at his inner thighs, occasionally grazing along Malcolm’s cock.

“Our relationship would cause me to devolve into further deviance,” insists Malcolm. His head is thrown back from John cautiously exploring the unbelievably sensitive areas near the base of his cock and just shy of his puckered hole. John’s touch sends his blood coursing hotly like rivers of fire. “If I cannot achieve gratification regularly, my natural erotic desires would become twisted. I might abuse the poor souls you take in from the streets and the shelters. Molest them with tools or instruments and edge them toward climax before you make me kill them. And I d-don’t...”

“Oh, but you do,” croons John. “We’ll take our pleasure from the damned before you take their souls. As one. Joined by so much blood. Say yes, Malcolm. Please. Let me hear you submit.”

Malcolm hisses from surprise when John rubs tantalizing circles along his groin, snaking hands around his thigh, and wresting him open. Malcolm grasps at John’s arm and stares at the black sickle slashed over John’s vein. John grunts when Malcolm adjusts his grip and stresses John’s knuckles to the point of pain.

“I want you covered in blood, too,” demands Malcolm. His Adam’s apple quivers as he speaks through awe and fear. “I see you up to your elbows. Splashed red like merlot wine, like me. With me.”

“I want you soaked in it, my pretty little feral.” John’s desire engulfs him. “I can’t get enough of it; watching you tear into the unworthy. When you kill, Malcolm, it’s glorious. You make their last moments precious. I’m not even looking down. All I can see is you. Wildest thing. I feel the divine. You, pure for me. Please, tell me yes. You make me so happy!”

“John! Oh God, yes. Yes, I’m yours,” begs Malcolm, almost blinded when his body succumbs to the man holding him. John kisses him deeply before Malcolm spills hot white, uncontrollably as John wins his soul. He's gasping for it when his senses unfurl into oblivion. Malcolm gives into the temptation which John offers, and plunges into a lake of fire which promises to burn forevermore.

* * *

Malcolm doesn’t sleep, but he remembers. The surety of John’s arms wrapped around him lulls Malcolm into a place of long buried memories. John awakens to dashed flowers and flickering lights. Malcolm is paler than death, swaddled in the blanket.

“When you and my father took me camping, the both of you argued when you thought I fell asleep. Was it about the girl in the box? Did I try to stop you? What happened, John?” Malcolm scrubs at his wan face and the blanket falls past his slumped shoulder and the bruising on his left side. “I know I said I would marry you, but I can’t give you my whole heart if that part of me stays lost. Incomplete. Help me.”

“Deal’s a deal. You will love me, no matter what.” John holds Malcolm tightly. His breath rattles in his chest before he huffs into Malcolm’s skin. The tip of John’s nose presses into him, instinctively scenting him. Malcolm shivers as goosebumps take over from John’s beard hairs coarse where he is naked. 

“I would kill for you, John,” says Malcolm. His lips part, speechless from the love welling up in the dark spots of John’s eyes, the yearning which is incomprehensibly recognizable in how John stares at him.

“You weren’t asleep at the time. Probably the chloroform wore off and you were coming out of it. Your father said he was handling the situation. We disagreed on the finer points of _how_.” 

“What do you mean?” Malcolm shuts his eyes and pushes down his knee-jerk rejection response. His voice steadies. “Was it about the girl?”

“Nah, Martin got rid of her in a hurry, thanks to you snooping around. She was a done deal. I can show you later.” John waves off further mention of the girl in the box who haunted Malcolm. He doesn’t specify what he intends to show Malcolm.

The bedrock of reality as Malcolm understands it nearly collapses into ruin when John tells him the truth, long denied to him by his own father.

“He brought you here to die,” reveals John. 

“And you would’ve watched,” says Malcolm. “You were helping him.”

“Any man worth his salt wouldn’t give up his firstborn just like that,” says John.

“I see,” says Malcolm, his eyes a cool blue as he turns over each piece of the truth.

John suddenly lunges at him, pinning his hands against the interior of the van. Malcolm’s head bashes the upholstery none too gently. John grips his chin and shakes him harshly. “No more of that, now. You let your problems go in that river. Our river. We can’t go back. There’s work to be done.” John’s hold on Malcolm tenses into strangulation, jealousy sharpening his words. “Forget your father! You think of me, and me only. You will not go back to him!”

Malcolm nods shakily. When John releases him, Malcolm clings to him, curling up forlorn on John’s lap. John pats his brown hair and dabs Malcolm’s wet puppy dog eyes with his blanket.

The morning light beams brightly when John pops open the van doors. Malcolm is almost as surprised as the deer who happen upon their campsite.

“Look, John! How amazing,” sighs Malcolm. Innocent wonder casts an ethereal glow on him, with nothing but John’s blanket keeping him warm and untouched.

“Yeah. Beautiful,” murmurs John. The deer slip away into a green spring by the time he drags his gaze from Malcolm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all prolly figured out that this isn't the last chapter. ^_^U Apologies for hella spaced out update. I'm hoping to FINALLY FINISH this fic in the next chapter. Please pray for me to end it. Thanks for sticking with me this far.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed Johnnie the music nerd. The mawwiage proposal with the hipster date stolen from a Pinterest board. Malcolm coming without touch. Maybe not so much enjoyment of Malcolm's forced conversion into the faith.
> 
> PLEASE let me know if I accidentally use the name Paul after this point. I was so excited to write the moment when Watkins told Malcolm who he really is. "John. My name's Johnnie." I totally stole that line from the movie Penelope. Ugh, is this identity porn? Be still, my deviant heart.


	6. Here is Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> less goody goody more boom boom

Malcolm almost sighs with relief after Adolpho drops him off at the precinct from his mother’s house where he had brunch with his family. The relief is short-lived when Gil approaches him with a desk note, concerning a missed phone call from Ian Turner, Chief of Detectives.

“What does the brass want with you?” asks Gil. He squeezes Malcolm’s shoulder.

“Turner was one of the investigators on my father’s case. He might find something about the girl in the box,” says Malcolm, reaching for the work landline on his desk.

“Son of a gun. You've got guts, kid. Keep me posted,” Gil says tiredly. He retracts the weight of his hand, a touch which Malcolm normally finds very grounding. With his suspicions allayed; Gil leaves Malcolm to his Crusade, and retreats to his office with the coffee he made.

“Hello, Malcolm. I hope I didn’t put you off your work,” says Turner.

“I don’t mind at all,” Malcolm lowers the pitch of his voice. “I take it this isn’t a pleasure call, Ian?”

Turner’s laugh is sudden, but warm. His rich voice still makes Malcolm’s feet flex inside his wingtips.

“I won’t be forgetting you any time soon, I’ll say that much. But I think you know as well as I do that I’m not in a position to encourage further misadventures. Today I’m strictly Chief Turner,” says Turner.

“Understood, sir. What can I do for you?” asks Malcolm, adopting a more perfunctory tone. He straightens in his chair, planting his dress shoes on the linoleum.

“Have you been in touch with Owen Shannon? Since we last… conversed?” asks Turner.

“Shannon and I had dinner,” informs Malcolm. He offers up the actual date of Owen Shannon’s last meal and the name and business address of the restaurant. “Shannon imbibed quite a bit. I was concerned for him and saw him off at his residence later that evening.”

“Have you had contact with Shannon after your dinner with him?” inquires Turner.

“I called him once to make sure he was alright. Left a voicemail. I want to say it was a day or two days after a very uncomfortable dining experience,” answers Malcolm. “What’s happened?”

“Been tryin' to get ahold of Owen. He could be holed up in a motel for one of his out of town gigs. It’s not the first time, probably not the last time that he dodges my calls. Stubborn bastard,” chuckles Turner. “He was my guy, y’know? Gotta check up on him.”

“He won’t thank you for it,” replies Malcolm. “I wish you luck, Chief Turner. It’s a pleasure to hear from you.”

“Likewise, baby,” says Turner, ending the call.

Malcolm resists the primitive urge to reach out to John right there on the spot. He waits until their inevitable meeting.

John beckons Malcolm to Salvage Garden, the junkyard on Kidron and 175th.

“Turner phoned me, at work. Sounds like he’s ready to file a missing persons,” says Malcolm. “Johnnie Watkins, do you have any information pertaining to the whereabouts of former ex-cop Owen Shannon?”

John’s arms bracket Malcolm. The workbench in his garage takes his weight as he leans in. “His blood reeked of liquor when it was on you.” John capriciously kisses Malcolm’s jaw.

“You left nothing behind in Shannon’s house,” states Malcolm, for his own reassurance.

“Just the smoking gun. I had no problems getting his mail and taking out his recyclables and clearing out his answering machine,” says John. “When you called his home phone, you told me exactly what to do. Lights and TV seen and heard by neighbors.”

“No prints? No palm prints? And you didn’t wipe it down, right? His prints should still be on the door knobs and faucets and light switches,” informs Malcolm.

“Believe me, I didn’t leave it spic ‘n’ span. The place was a dump, not a crime scene,” says John.

“But I’m still the last known person to see Shannon alive,” says Malcolm. “We were lucky, John. If Shannon wasn't the type to eschew smart devices. If he didn’t earn his wages with fringe work. If he didn’t burn his bridges with other shields…”

“It would’ve raised a stink when I junked him,” agrees John. “Paranoia will destroy ya, little Malcolm. Time for a pick-me-up.”

Purpose, grim though it may be, is what separates Malcolm from the lost soul tethered by scratchy brown rope within the buried darkness of John’s holding chamber.

“Meet Sally, from Hudson Valley,” introduces John. John beams a plastic yellow LED lantern inside the Winnebago. When he discards the rag plugged halfway down their victim’s throat, Malcolm spies the crumbling black teeth like a row of blighted maize kernels. Her thin hair is held back by a pair of electric blue metal hair clips snapped into place. Malcolm feels pity for the meth user who is plagued by physical imbalance and jerky, disorderly movements. The victim’s stiffness was already debilitating before John bound her.

Malcolm plucks at his latex gloves, cupping her wasted and gaunt face, before he wrenches her head, ears pricked for the grind of vertebrae to sever the nerves regulating her heartbeat. He’s satisfied, morbidly so, when she drops like brittle shale.

“I had your apron and a face shield. You shouldn’t have held back,” complains John. He prefers for Malcolm to skewer the damned by knifepoint.

“Her abdomen felt swollen, likely from an inflamed liver. Couldn’t risk exposing us to Hep C,” says Malcolm.

“I thought you’d love her,” says John.

“I did,” says Malcolm. He rubs his tearstained chin on his cheap, black sweater intended for easy replacement. “Hers was a merciful death.”

“Did her sacrifice ease your heart, sweet Malcolm?” asks John.

“Yes. I’m grateful,” Malcolm promptly answers.

“Your compassion for a small, mean life ought to be rewarded,” says John, rubbing his hands in anticipation. John leaves the woman’s corpse in the tightly quartered bedroom area. Malcolm follows John to the compact shower unit. Inside is a Hispanic man who looks fatigued and beaten, but not as emaciated by habits. The male victim is more strident, yanking at coarse ropes, rumbling outraged fury despite his gag.

“What could his sin be?” wonders Malcolm aloud.

“This drunken fool shot into a car with children inside when he was hopped up on crack,” says John. “I think you wouldn’t be too critical if I threw him into the chomper.”

“No one deserves to be pulped in a steel box,” disagrees Malcolm. “Señor remembers his actions from when he was impaired by illicit substances. He sought alcohol to drown out feelings of remorse subsequent to his drug fueled rampage. Police would’ve eventually caught him.”

“It would’ve been a slow grind.” John chuckles, the gears in his head turning like a death machine. “It will be a slow grind for him, if you don’t want to send him to Hell.”

The male victim’s placement in the shower unit informs Malcolm as to the method of execution. It is a small but easily sanitized area. John’s calluses catch on the fibers of Malcolm’s sweater before he palms off the knife. Fingers ghost over Malcolm’s pulse.

“The innocent blood which this despicable man spilled demands vengeance,” murmurs John. “Think of the children, Malcolm.”

“Please give me the work gloves,” says Malcolm. Then he’s not thinking of much at all as he obeys John. He hears a persistent thunk thunk thunk followed by dead weight squealing on the shower walls. He’s shaking when it’s over. John peels off Malcolm’s protective work gloves, drops them into the ceramic coated shower pan. John raises the hem of Malcolm’s sweater, rubbing along the waistband of his cloth pants.

“Your tears are sweet, little Malcolm,” praises John. He kisses Malcolm’s cheek and presses their hands into darkness pulsating warmth. “Your purified heart deserves a reward.” 

Their relationship is causing John to evolve. John was alone, without Malcolm. Initially, Malcolm supposes that John does not crave physical proximity with his victims, hence the industrial crusher. However, time spent together informs Malcolm that, on the contrary, John likes things close and tight, to be present the very moment when a damned soul is cleaved from wicked flesh. 

Practical barriers barred John from feeling his victims’ pain. Not so anymore. Together, they cleanse the Winnebago before the dirty blood and ichor putrefies into necrotic miasma. Malcolm assists John in moving the corpses into a dilapidated automobile, revved up for the industrial crusher.

Malcolm’s reward awaits them behind the locked doors of John’s auto garage. Without any prompting, Malcolm stands on the cement. He is posted beside a bucket of detergent liquid which is also out of John’s way.

John kicks over a padded mat which he cobbled from a leather backseat, foam cushion, and gorilla glue. The padded leather is meant to be easy to wipe down and disposable after hard wear. The mat’s width is about 50 inches; long enough for when Malcolm collapses. Malcolm’s hands clasp impatiently just from the sight of the leather uncurling beneath John’s boot.

John’s hands, like Malcolm’s, are bloodied from handling the dead Hispanic crack dealer. He’s grinning ear to ear, abuzz from killing a strong man. John is ten times happier than when he disposes of a drug addled whore. He is energetic, humming along with the soft rock playing from his radio. John positions the leather mat near a small metal track repurposed from a compact assembly line. Sitting on top of the metal track is an aluminum frame housing a DC motor, speed control unit, wiring, and converters for the machine to run on AC current from an orange extension cord plugged into the wall outlet.

Protruding from the aluminum frame is a moveable rod mounted with a dildo attachment. John made a fuck machine for Malcolm, and if that is not proof positive that John loves him, Malcolm can’t imagine better for himself.

The vessel of Malcolm's body thrums beneath his cheap outfit. Many late night conversations about their wedding engagement convinces John how necessary it is for him to participate in Malcolm’s pleasure, in equal measure of the happiness which Malcolm brings to John through the joy killings. Malcolm connects John to scarlet rites once denied to him as a lone stalker.

Perhaps to tease Malcolm, John leisurely performs safety checks on the fuck machine. Malcolm gets jealous, watching John oil the dildo. Constrained by Scripture, John isn’t ready yet, not for anything beyond kissing and petting. Once they are married, courtship over, Malcolm intends to push John’s boundaries.

Some days, Malcolm can’t believe that he’s been a perfect gentleman for his betrothed. Some nights, such as this one, he can’t believe how much passion has built up from delayed gratification, waiting for John to make the next move.

John undresses Malcolm and throws the bloodied clothes into the bucket of detergent. Malcolm is naked except for the blood on his hands and the anal plug inserted in his body.

“Think you forgot your undies today,” says John.

“I did not.” Malcolm’s gaze on John is almost predatory as he kneels on the padded mat. His bloodied hands stick to the leather as he assumes the position on all fours. As he shuffles backward, his leg bumps the small metal track mounted by the fuck machine. The handle of his anal plug skims the fleshy underside of the dildo attachment.

Malcolm drops his head, biting back a moan, when John removes the anal plug. Made of glass, it’s cloudy and streaked with lube. The glass plug rolls in a semicircle before its hot surface settles against Malcolm’s knee.

“Damn it, John. You twisted it on purpose,” accuses Malcolm.

“Put your hands closer,” says John, smirking. When Malcolm obeys (with a dark look), John secures a black U-shaped bike lock around Malcolm’s wrists. The steel lock weighs cold and heavy on Malcolm’s bloodstained hands. John kisses the key to the bike lock with a wink.

As usual, John turns his back to go and wash his hands in the utility sink. He spends a couple minutes lathering and scouring his nails. For someone who enjoys putting his hands on (almost) everything, John has a fastidious nature. 

Malcolm spreads his knees further apart and wriggles until the tip of the dildo catches on his loosened hole. Though the dildo is cold, its hard length against his ass feels too good. Malcolm breathes into it, as he presses back, and splits himself open. The firm dildo burns the more it sinks in. His face burrows into his restrained arms, tongue between his teeth, mewling from his throat, ass raised up high, and pierced by inches of silicone.

“Fix your posture, little Malcolm. Good posture is important,” chides John. He puts his boot on the middle of Malcolm’s back, removing his sole only when Malcolm kneels properly. John turns the speed dial to its lowest setting.

Malcolm’s cock taps his navel. He strains from the dildo going one thrust per second, penetrating no further than a couple inches. His forearm and shins squeal against the leather. His hands tremble, rattling the bike lock, as he breaks into sweat. His body stills when John’s boot nudges his hip.

“Don’t move too much. I’ll hit the off switch. Don’t think I won’t,” warns John. John crouches to his level. 

Malcolm’s head turns to John. His hair falls over his eyes, stirring with his breath. “Please, John. I need it deeper.”

The actuator motor whirs repeatedly, motion punctuated by the light swoop of the motor arm’s prowess, thrusting the dildo into Malcolm. John took the motor from Pontiac windshield wipers.

John derives no small measure of satisfaction from his joined creations, Malcolm and the machine. He tucks a damp lock of Malcolm’s hair behind Malcolm’s ear. Brown hair strands fall out of place almost immediately, but the unruliness unexpectedly brings a smile to John’s face. John usually prefers to watch Malcolm’s expressive looks without obstruction.

Malcolm’s stomach churns from the sadistic gleam in John’s look. John fishes his coverall pockets before getting his fingers into Malcolm’s hair. A pair of metallic blue hair clips sit on John’s palm. Malcolm immediately recognizes them from tonight’s kill.

“These clips go with your eyes,” says John. He snaps them in place while Malcolm wobbles from the dildo’s slow thrusts. Malcolm stares at him imploringly from under his lashes. The dead woman’s hair ornaments and Malcolm’s eyes shine so very blue.

When John sees how prettily Malcolm behaves, he pushes the fuck machine along the cylindrical rollers of the small metal track. The dildo penetrates further into Malcolm, each slow, hard pump stretching him before he’s ready. Malcolm’s nails scrape the leather, his mouth forming a large “O”, saliva hanging from his lips past his chin, his feet tightly arched, toes bunched.

“Next time, I’ll make you a love machine from a big power drill,” says John. “As much as you like thrusty thrusty…”

John trails off when Malcolm cries out, eyes screwed shut, squeezing out tears. The muscles of Malcolm’s arms, legs, and abdominals clench and go rigid as he comes all over the leather pad which John made. Malcolm scrabbles forward but he doesn’t get very far; twitching like a broken machine as the motor grinds onward; dildo relentlessly driving into him and nailing his pleasure spot over and over, three thrusts per second from John cranking up the control dial. Malcolm screams blue murder until he can’t tell the difference between agony and bliss, noise and music, and shock and joy.

John shuts it down way after Malcolm has had enough. Malcolm lets out a sob, cringing from his very skin, his tear stained cheek, stuck to the leather from cold sticky blood and hot slick spend. His ecstacy is tainted by the suffering which his own hands inflicted. Malcolm feels the emptiness yawning within him, and it’s nothing to do with his gaped hole.

Malcolm remains speechless when John sits with him and lifts Malcolm’s head onto his lap. John pats his hair, and fills him with praise.

“Beautiful. You did beautiful, sugar.” John lightly squeezes his throat with the warm crook of his arm. Malcolm sucks in a deep breath and shivers. He sees through John’s actions, knows that John is conditioning him to bloodlust. Malcolm will learn to associate exsanguination with John’s indulgences. He understands that he belongs to John, and it’s difficult for him to object when John cradles him like a beloved possession. Malcolm’s nightmares are shadows in a sanitized room compared to the encompassing darkness of John’s love.

“Kiss me, Johnnie. If you mean it,” begs Malcolm. With the last of his strength, Malcolm lifts his hands, wrists shackled by the steel bike lock, and he tugs on John’s unkempt beard. John bends to his whim; and then John claims his lips. John’s hands leave a scarlet impression on skin white as death, like red ink on the deed to Malcolm’s soul.

* * *

His body feels preciously tender on the walk from John’s garage to the mobile home. Though a spare set of John’s coveralls feels scratchy and coarse, Malcolm is glad for the baggy cloth loose where he is the most sensitive. He needs John to guide him through columns of abandoned junk. The entrance to John's hide away remains an enigma to Malcolm until John pries open an assuming sheet of clapboard ashen with dry rot.

Malcolm is confronted by the large black cross mounted on the maple wall panels. He familiarizes himself once more with John’s abode, measuring 10 feet by 20 feet. John makes tea in the galley kitchen. The incandescent fixtures brighten the space more than the natural light from the high, narrow horizontal windows.

“You added chairs,” observes Malcolm. He carefully rolls onto the round upholstered seat of a high-backed bar stool. Malcolm leans back onto three slim curved wooden slats reminiscent of a park bench. His legs don’t reach the hardwood floor. Malcolm’s shoes find purchase on the thick steel ring stabilizing the wooden legs.

The high-backed stools, although cut from a different grain, complements the round bistro table top supported by a vintage reddish oak barrel.

It’s the circles, thinks Malcolm. The search for his past yielded the man who would shape his future.

“Pub not too far from here put up their chairs for good. I liberated a couple bits and bobs. Managers didn’t have kids who would’ve took over,” says John. He puts down steaming mugs of tea for them both. “Old couple, never married, but been together for longer than I been around. They’re RV’ing across the USA.”

“That sounds like a well-earned retirement,” says Malcolm. “Good for them, having their adventures.”

John snorts over his tea. “They still get it on. It’s unnatural.”

“I would argue that it is quite natural. The free love generation, tokin’ and pokin’,” says Malcolm.

“I don’t get it,” says John.

“Maybe we can unravel the mystery before our wedding date, which will be six months after you meet my mother, the ex-wife of your former partner in crime who also happens to be my father,” says Malcolm.

“It would be easier to kill Jessica Whitly than to win her over,” mutters John.

“That’s what you think,” says Malcolm. “The faintest hint of foul play will lead to an investigation by Major Crimes, estate managers, auditors, legal teams, and anyone who has an opinion. The armchair sleuths would declare open season. Not to mention my sister, on top of the waves of publicity before she gets anchor.”

“Fine. No murdering the mother-in-law,” concedes John.

“It would put a damper on our honeymoon,” says Malcolm. He excuses himself to go to the bathroom. As he lowers the lid and flushes an actual toilet, Malcolm marvels at the peaceful home which John went through considerable pains to establish with water carrier supply lines, waste disposal drain lines, and ventilation pipes.

Malcolm washes up, brushes his teeth, and applies moisturizing cream from the toiletry bag that now lives in John’s mobile home. He uses a disposable wireless phone to access the voicemail to his iPhone. Gil usually calls and leaves messages because he prefers to hear how Malcolm is doing. As does his mother. Crystal, too, although less so since Malcolm’s visits with Isaac Parker have dipped low to once every other month. John keeps him busy after hours.

His iPhone is on silent mode, plugged into a portable battery, and tucked into the secret box within his trick dresser drawer back at the Soho loft where he resides. 

John and Malcolm operate on primal hungers, leaving no bones, no recorded logs, no time stamped or geo tagged digital traces. They are two men in love, in depth.

Malcolm shuffles to the twin bed from the bathroom. The hot, sweetened tea acts as a soporific. He lies on top of the colorful blanket woven with pink, mint green, white, and yellow zig zags. 

John straps each of Malcolm’s wrists to the bed frame with a pair of nylon restraints which he made for Malcolm. The nylon webbing seat belts, salvaged from a Chevrolet Corvette, are mainly black nylon webbing with thin red borders, looped into D-rings and fastened with velcro which John sewed on a machine with a denim needle.

John heaves the barstool closer to the bed and sits on it backwards, his arms folded over the high backed support slats.

“I didn’t figure that we would be honeymooning,” says John. His brow creases and he scratches his crinkled nose.

“It’s highly suspicious if we abstain,” retorts Malcolm. He gentles his tone, for John. "We don't have to have relations, but even I can see the appeal of going on a trip as newlyweds. Anywhere that you want to go, John."

"You really mean that, little Malcolm? You with me and me with you?" John's craving for reassurances surprises Malcolm at times, to hear John asking him for affirmation.

Clinically speaking, John displays the hallmarks of a child abuse survivor. Improper emotional development shows up in John's social withdrawal from his peers of the same age, his anger, his unresponsiveness when his victims beg clemency, his outbursts when he won't listen to Malcolm. And, oh yeah, the serial killing.

Malcolm has had to practice more patience and speak more sensitively with John than anyone that he's dated. Especially in the little moments when John, in his own way, desperately seeks affection.

"Have you been to Spain or Germany or France? I'm afraid Notre Dame is off the maps, but the cathedrals in Valencia are gorgeous. When in Rome. In actual Rome, if you want. We can get pizza in Naples." Though he is physically worn out, Malcolm feels excitement flickering inside of him, from the idea of giving John a taste of the world. A different slice of the pizza pie with the upper crust.

"Israel," says John. "We could walk the road to Jericho."

That would do a number on his Gucci loafers.

"Tel Aviv, it is," says Malcolm. A teasing smile plays on his lips. He's willing to risk getting smacked, restrained as he is. "But you'll have to pack more than your Bible. I'll require a great deal of my husband's attention."

John wrinkles his brows, the lines around his nose and mouth deepening with his uneasiness.

"When we're married, don't expect me to change," says John. He stirs restlessly on the high backed stool. "I'll take care of you Malcolm, even if it's not how you want."

"I accept you, John. I can accept the fact that you're different from the men I typically fuck," says Malcolm. He decides to keep talking because John's guard is down. They're both naturally relaxed when Malcolm is tied down.

"Language," says John flatly. He has no answer for Malcolm's compassion and gentleness.

Malcolm arches his body and pulls himself up by the straps so he can sit and talk. His ass is sore, and the delicious reminder brings out his wanton movements.

"In my dalliances with other consenting humans, I've learned a thing or two about homosexuality. Can I tell you, John?" says Malcolm, wetting his lips.

"Let's hear it," replies John. His knees jiggle, the only indication of anxiety.

"Not all gays like anal. I love it, always have, always will. But my idea of pleasure doesn't represent the experiences of other queer folks," says Malcolm. 

"A lot of men find it too painful or traumatic or it's not worth the clean up to engage regularly. The way that men make love isn't driven by producing babies. It's just that. Making love. And so much of it."

Malcolm's restraints leave marks on his wrists, from how hard he leans toward John.

"I expect you to be with me. To care about me. To involve yourself. And you have to trust me to do the same for you," insists Malcolm. "That's more important to me than penis in, penis out. Trust me, John."

John leaves his perch. Malcolm clutches the nylon straps, not daring to blink as John climbs in and crawls to him in bed. John is not much taller than Malcolm nor is his physique particularly outstanding. Yet Malcolm's heartbeat pounds in his ears when John straddles him.

"Kiss me with that dirty little mouth you got there," commands John.

Though Malcolm's lips brush the pink line of John's mouth, he doesn't move further than that because John takes over. The back of Malcolm's neck presses the headboard framing the small bed, from John pushing him down. His chest is right up against John's. John's body heat radiates through the knit blanket. Malcolm sweats for more of John's hard touch.

"If you ever betray me, Malcolm, I will ruin you. You will beg for me to end you, to make it end. And I won't stop. I will keep you where it's dark, chained and locked, and they'll never take you from me. Even if you leave me your body, I promise you torment."

"John, please, I love you!" Malcolm doesn't have a choice, with John smothering him. He is between a hard wall and a cruel man.

A soft cry escapes from Malcolm as John kisses away the wet tracks of tears.

"Hush now. Settle down. You need to know what it means for me to trust you, little Malcolm. Fear is godly knowledge," whispers John. He patiently dabs away the tears that well up in Malcolm's eyes when his voice becomes tender.

"So here's the thing. I do feel some kind of way for you," says John. He pretends to knock on his head. "It's in my noggin. I can't stop thinking about you." A mixture of disbelief and puzzlement shows on John's face. He puts his hand on the front of his coverall as though he has heartburn. "And it's here, too. My heart's in on it."

"Oh, John." To say that Malcolm's touched is an understatement.

John suddenly looks disappointed. "You don't get it, Mal!" He punches the headboard, and it rattles Malcolm. "The stuff you said was nice and sweet, but it don't actually apply. I have a problem which means we have a problem."

"John, just tell me. If you really trust me."

John leans his forehead onto Malcolm's shoulder. Chills run down Malcolm’s spine as John sniffs him out. "I'm thinking about our wedding night."

Malcolm can feel John's heart rate pick up. Though he's drained in so many ways, he can feel John's body.

"John… " Malcolm parses his words carefully. "Forgive me if I'm presuming, but it sounds like you want to consummate our marriage. Is that what you're waiting for? For us to be married first?"

Malcolm's hopes are soaring. "We can elope. Go to city hall and you pick whatever church. We would still have to arrange a wedding ceremony later for family and friends."

John laughs a little. "My, aren't we eager." He faces Malcolm, like a portrait of misery. "That wouldn't solve our problem though. I lust for you, Malcolm. But."

Malcolm almost hyperventilates as he waits to hear what the catch is.

"Lord help me. Look. The engine wants to run but the tires are flat," explains John. 

John will berserk kill him on the spot if he laughs, but honestly, Malcolm is too worked up from finally learning John's secret. He is starving for more private details.

"Oh. _Oh._ Have you been seen by a specialist?" Malcolm is doing his solemn best not to say “dick doctor.”

"What could a doctor do for me?" retorts John wryly. "I don't want pills for that."

"You should go to the doctor's for a physical examination, panels, screenings, all of it. This is about your health. I need to get bloodwork done, too, prior to our nuptials." Malcolm can't believe what he's saying. The conceptuals of married life are already changing him before they've picked a date.

"I'll go and see a doc," says John.

"Do you want me to go with you? I can wait in the office, catch up on Vogue," offers Malcolm.

"Nah, I'm grown. I'll go get it taken care of."

"The sooner, the better. And you'll make sure to see a specialist referred to you by your family doctor?" emphasizes Malcolm.

"Yes, dear," says John. He shakes his head. "It'll be a hassle enough without you there clutching your purse."

"Thank you, Johnnie," says Malcolm. He lies back down and sinks into dreams, beneath a toasty blanket and John's arm curled around him.

* * *

Malcolm stares down the small brown bag on his desktop. He doesn’t recall ordering lunch at work. His stomach plummets, the back of his neck prickling, when he picks up the hollow parcel in his clammy hands.

Delicate, but hard edges poke just under his nails before Malcolm pinches a thin metal chain and recovers the charm bracelet from the nondescript brown bag. Golden crescents, sickle moons, glimmer in the impersonal fluorescent lights of the precinct. The engraved initials, SMA are backwards until Malcolm flips the jewelry.

“Hey Bright, wanna grab-- wait a minute, did you eat already?” asks Dani with incredulity.

Malcolm crumples the paper bag and throws it into the drawer.

“I should eat. But I really need to clean out my desk. On the other hand, lunch sounds better,” fibs Malcolm. He restrains himself from locking it under Dani’s nose.

"How are things with your new squeeze?" inquires Dani as they head back from their food run. Malcolm is spared from answering her playful inquiry.

He and Dani cut through Washington Square Park with their bagged lunches when they come upon a uni maintaining a cordon around a giant tree at least five feet in diameter. The officer spies Dani's shield and lets them approach.

"White female, 40s, in this tree." The police officer gestures at the litter spilling out of a warped hollow enclosure. The soil is clumped from moisture, but not yet muddy. Amidst the litter is a brown leather round toe pump. Despite the twisted black seam in the nylon, the victim's pantyhose is intact around cold flesh. 

Malcolm observes the black calf length skirt volumized by a fine, stiff netting known as tulle. The rest of her is concealed within a wooded embrace, but Malcolm recognizes post war fashion and already visualizes the cinched waist and rounded shoulders, black silk that now lines the heart of an elm like an upright casket.

Malcolm gazes upward to the tree boughs that fall short of heaven, closing his blue eyes to the corpses strung up in scratchy, brown rope. He recognizes the unfortunate souls reaped by his own hands, hanging like strange crops. Droplets fall upon his brow, warm like blood. Malcolm and Dani stand under the thick branches in the rain and quickly process their to-go meals before Malcolm soaks in the elements of a crime scene.

When Malcolm visits the morgue, he surprises Edrisa who is holding the black silk dress up to the front of her scrubs. Edrisa’s glove is splayed over the silk bosom. Her mouth flaps open when she catches sight of Malcolm whilst spinning out the skirt with the ripped tulle. It’s an unusual situation where both of them are scrutinizing the textile more so than the corpse.

“Genuine article Dior?” Malcolm asks Edrisa. Prompted by her skeptical expression, Malcolm adds, “I’ve waited for my mother, my sister, an ex-girlfriend, etc. in too many French boutiques not to recognize that silhouette.”

“The silk is genuine, but I didn’t see a tag that says ‘Made in France.’”

“Or ‘Fabriqué en France?’” quips Malcolm. “What did you find, Edrisa, if not a couture label? If you didn’t see any stamped authentic numbers?”

“The tag sewn in reads ‘Bella Thorne,’” answers Edrisa. The musty smell from the silk clothes hangs between them; due to proximity, the smell is more pronounced than harsh disinfectants and embalming fluids. Edrisa wrinkles her nose. “I showered today, by the way. That’s not me.”

“Of course. The notes of orange blossom and sandalwood. Lanolin. That’s you,” says Malcolm. He keeps talking as though he doesn’t see the pleasure flitting over her features. “The silk dress was exposed to water, likely from yesterday’s rain shower. Dampness brings out sericin, the protein glue present in the fibers spun by the silkworm.”

“It stinks, literally. The silk fabric also shrank. I had a tough time peeling off her clothes without causing further damage,” says Edrisa. “The netting under the skirt had a good chunk torn out of it. You know what else is fishy, besides the sericin?”

Edrisa raises the neckline of the dress. “If this dress were an actual Dior, someone took the trouble to remove the original tag and sew in the label for ‘Bella Thorne.’ I held it to the light and noted a parallel line of holes made by needlepoint, like from a sewing machine.”

Malcolm then inspects the supine corpse’s hands, in particular the fingertips. “I don’t see any pin-prick marks. What condition are the muscles and joints in her arms?”

“No apparent musculoskeletal disorder like what you’d expect from repetitive strain injuries,” says Edrisa. “Signs of head trauma present, but that’s not the cause of death.”

“Victim wasn’t a seamstress, then. I don’t think JT or Dani will get a hit if they run Bella Thorne’s name through missing persons or archived police reports. The killer is masking their motive by copying an unsolved mystery originating in England. In the 1940s, a rotting skull was found by children looking for birds’ nests.” Malcolm’s hands bracket either side of the corpse’s hair, strands lank from tree sap and dirt. The corpse’s lips are blackened.

“Who put Bella in the wych elm?” says Malcolm.

“This case sounds familiar to me. It was a cautionary tale that my professor fed us about evidence management. Didn’t the police lose her skull?” says Edrisa.

“Right in one, Dr. Tanaka. They lost her head. I’m sure the investigators lost their heads too because the case remains unsolved,” says Malcolm. “Our copycat only re-enacted the victim’s wardrobe and site of death. The killer did not emulate the fantastic grisliness of the originating crime, possibly due to the foot traffic through Washington Square Park. The original Bella was believed to have been the victim of a Satanic ritual killing. She was holding her sawed off hand when police collected her from the tree. Her severed arm was discovered thirteen paces away. Gagged. Still breathing when she entered the tree.”

“Ah, no Hand of Glory here,” says Edrisa, gesturing to the intact limbs. Her eyes briefly flick upward, in remembrance of factual details. “I did find something in our Bella’s throat. Someone ripped out the delicate tulle and used it to obstruct the victim’s airway. The tulle scratched her mouth and tonsils. Her own blood clotting in the meshwork blocked air flow, resulting in asphyxiation.”

“I see. That’s why you were… inspecting her garment,” concludes Malcolm, a spark of humor in the face of a long, cruel night which ultimately claimed a woman’s life. They both ponder on a woman of Edrisa’s size, petite in height, her lips blood rouged, lush skirts petaled like a deathly bloom interred within the heartwood. 

Malcolm’s phone buzzes. It’s the call he’s expecting from John. Edrisa does a little wave after Malcolm excuses himself.

“What did you think of your special treat?” asks John. He means the charm bracelet burning a hole in Malcolm’s desk drawer. 

“It’s from the girl,” says Malcolm.

“It was a finder’s fee from when I helped your father. Thought you would appreciate a little souvenir,” says John.

“You’re spoiling me with jewelry,” says Malcolm. He’s outside now, standing beside a sapling tree hemmed in by pavement. His fingers trace the young bark. “Thank you, Johnnie. I loved it. May I do whatever I want with it?”

“You mean, like, wear it?” John’s breath catches over their connection.

“No, the only thing I’ll wear from you is the ring you pick for me,” answers Malcolm.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s still in the works,” says John. “You can do whatever you like with the bracelet. Martin got the girl in the trunk. And me, well, I got you.”

It’s more than what Malcolm could’ve ever expected to have; validation that the girl of his dreams was real, not a phantasm born of his father’s shadow.

“How was...” Malcolm’s throat tightens from emotion. “How was your appointment with the urologist?”

“Doc’s gonna have me scheduled for a pre-op consultation after he looks at my MRI. You can come along for that appointment, if you want. He’ll explain it better than me,” says John.

“For surgery?” gasps Malcolm.

On the date of the consultation, Malcolm makes himself available despite the work he has left to do for the case of Bella Thorne. Doctor Ambedkar, an Indian man, meets with them in a conference room with a large table and a projector. Visuals from John’s imaging tests are blown up larger than life. Doctor Ambedkar uses a laser pointer to indicate a branch of vasculature along John’s pelvic region, on his left side. The green laser beam traces a path from the pelvis to his genital region.

“John would benefit from vascular reconstructive surgery. I don’t normally recommend this treatment due to operative costs and the low success rate which is one in twenty,” prefaces Doctor Ambedkar.

“Money isn’t an issue,” says Malcolm. “What needs to be done?”

Doctor Ambedkar explains that John’s erectile issues stem from a small artery damaged from an injury that John sustained years ago.

“I would surgically transfer an artery from a muscle in the belly to one in the penis. We create a bypass for the blood to move around the improperly healed injury,” says Doctor Ambedkar. “John has expressed his desire not to depend on prescriptions to remedy impotence. It is my belief that I can treat the underlying issue while respecting his wishes.”

“That’s great news, isn’t it, John?” Malcolm reaches for John’s hand.

“I’ll think about it, Doc. This is big news,” replies John, turning from Malcolm.

“When you are ready, call my office. My assistant will book the procedure. Try not to pick up the smoking again. No vaping,” says Doctor Ambedkar.

“You smoke?” Malcolm shouldn’t be surprised.

“Quit in ‘96. Picked up a new hobby,” says John. His pointed look makes Malcolm shift in the conference chair.

“If the procedure goes well, you shall have another outlet for stress,” says Doctor Ambedkar. He shakes hands with them both. “I have to help my next patient, but you are welcome to use this room for a private discussion.”

Malcolm takes the printed appointment notes from John to read for himself.

“John, we should get you scheduled as soon as possible,” says Malcolm. “This could’ve been taken care of years ago. A decade ago. Did you play sports to incur this injury?”

“No. It wasn’t from sports,” says John. “Didn’t you hear the doc? He said my chances are one in twenty. I don’t think it’s God’s will for me to go under the knife. I got this far and I didn’t miss out on anything.”

“When did you get injured?” asks Malcolm.

“That was when I was a kid. Maybe seventeen,” answers John.

“And what year were you hobbying with my father?” says Malcolm.

“Ninety six,” answers John.

“You were substituting,” says Malcolm. “For all the years that you weren’t able to satisfy your libido.”

“It was God. He saved me from giving into my inappropriate urges. From sinning,” says John. He angrily pushes the conference chair into the wall and moves to leave the room. “I don’t want the surgery if it means jeopardizing my work.”

Malcolm steps in John’s path, stumbling when the clash of their bodies pushes him back.

“What happened when you got hurt?” asks Malcolm. He raises his chin and braces his feet.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not going through with it,” says John.

“It does! You’re making a decision that affects both of us. Inaction is a choice. Your inaction will color our marriage! Explain to me what happened, John! If you want me to be a good husband, you will give me a fair chance,” insists Malcolm. He wedges his conference chair underneath the door handle. “Was it really God?!” challenges Malcolm.

“I was a handful as a kid,” says John. He pulls at his beard and shuffles his feet. “I was being stubborn. I took my grief out on the folks who raised me. I made Gam Gam cry. Pops corrected me.”

“Your grandfather beat you severely,” says Malcolm. “What kind of man kicks a child who is down.”

“Shut up, Malcolm! You don’t know,” growls John. His ferocity causes Malcolm to tip into the chair. Malcolm’s shoulders and the back of his head thump the door.

“Didn’t it hurt after? It must have been painful to walk around wounded. As much as you suffered, your fear was greater. You kept silent even though you needed a doctor,” says Malcolm softly. “Your grandfather’s fist wasn’t the hand of God on you.”

“It was! It fixed me!”

“No, John.” Malcolm shakes his head vigorously. Tears drip from his lashes as John grabs him by the lapels of his suit jacket. Malcolm’s fingers caress the chapped skin around John’s knuckles. “No one is born broken. Someone made us that way.”

“I ought to make you black and blue,” says John. His eyes are dark, but his grip on Malcolm slackens.

“Do you want to do to me what your grandfather did to you? Is that what you need, John?” He faces John’s fists.

“I need you. God help me, but I do!” utters John. Once more the door rattles, this time from the collision of their kiss.

The medical receptionist knocks on the conference door to check in on them with a security officer backing her up.

“Sirs, is everything alright?” demands the security officer.

“We’re fine. Sorry,” says Malcolm breathlessly through his bitten lips.

“My partner just convinced me to listen to the doc. If you don’t mind, Miss, I’d like to schedule my surgery,” says John to the receptionist.

They are encouraged to leave after John makes his appointment, with Malcolm by his side. Later on, when they’re alone, John tells him. “My Pops booted me in his garage. I knew something inside me snapped when he did it. I peed blood for a couple days after.”

“I love you, Johnnie. I accepted you,” Malcolm has no further words. He gets an inkling about the circumstances surrounding the death of the late Mr. Watkins. But now isn’t the time to seek justice or vengeance. It’s time for John to mourn what was taken from him.

“One in twenty chances,” says John, voice sinking in despair. “What if it doesn’t work after I wake up from the surgery table?”

“We’ll see,” says Malcolm. “I’d like to climb into your lap and experiment a little.”

His bald-faced admission makes John snort into laughter. “You’re nuts, Malcolm.”

John’s next words to Malcolm drain all the warm blood from his body. “So how would you feel about me bringing you home to meet my Gam Gam, after we settle my medical issues?”

* * *

John can move comfortably four weeks after the vascular reconstruction surgery. Malcolm drains his emergency fund which is separate from the accounts monitored by his mother’s business manager. He sinks thousands into John’s surgery, which is not as substantial as the cost of four days’ hospitalization. The bill for a home health aide to provide one month of full-time private care for John at his grandmother’s house demolishes the rest of Malcolm’s personal savings. When Malcolm isn’t working, he pretends to be the health aide on “the evening shift.” Malcolm sheds his three-piece suit for casual clothes.

Preparing food for John in Mrs. Watkin’s kitchen is out of the question. She treats Malcolm like the help, ever vigilant with helpful tips on how to care for her little Johnnie. Mrs. Watkins couches her orders in polite tones, but her unsolicited input adds so much more anxiety and peevish resentment to caregiving. Malcolm is obliged to either pick up take-out orders or to have food delivered.

For the few meals which Malcolm does make by hand, Matilda piles on the salt and the grace. Sunday morning sermons are the only time when John and Malcolm are alone. Malcolm has, by now, dusted every nook and cranny, including the religious knick knacks on the old gas fireplace in Matilda’s living room. When John is sleeping, cleaning with an earbud hanging from one lobe is his best defense for her comments about men in kitchens, men in laundry rooms, men who don’t church. 

The cataracts which render her blind are unsettling, but otherwise her appearance is perfectly normal. She keeps her faded white hair styled short. The lowlights of her hair hint that Matilda was born a redhead. Her silver cross gleams between the embroidered flowers of her thick cardigan, the fibers pilled from years of use.

Malcolm couldn’t pay the home health aide (equally condemned as a male) enough money to stay under Matilda Watkin’s roof past sundown. Malcolm’s personal finances are insufficient for the services of a part-time maid. Yet the payoff for Malcolm is worth it. 

There is a God, because Matilda is habitually early to sleep, without fail. Malcolm can lock the bedroom door with the novelty New York license plate stamped with John’s name in blue uppercase letters. He gets to curl up beside John underneath John’s favorite blanket. 

John cracks open the photo albums, and Malcolm gains all the insight he desires for how the man came to be. John tells Malcolm about his Pops strumming on a red Gibson electric guitar. Malcolm’s suspicions about Matilda are confirmed; she was a ginger lady with three cats. John’s biological mother is never pictured; and his biological father was never in the picture.

Malcolm almost covetously touches the anchor brackets drilled into the bottom of John’s wardrobe. The chains that once shackled John in darkness are long gone, but they left indelible impressions on the man who shook them off.

Practicalities have made it necessary for Malcolm to see more of John. He needs Malcolm’s help to remove his T-shirt, revealing another tattoo on John’s chest. The curved blade of a scythe glides along the bottom of his pectoral. On the same side as the scar which Malcolm’s knife left so many years ago. The scythe handle crosses John’s heart in a slant. That’s as much as Malcolm is allowed to see before John insists on washing alone. Then Malcolm heads for his loft after John is in bed, incision dressed and covered. Malcolm averages a couple hours of shut eye before Gil calls him.

The rest, as they say, is rinse and repeat.

“It’s almost four weeks, Malcolm. I never could’ve done this without you. I’m pretty sure that I can tell my Gam Gam about us,” announces John.

“Are her blessings that important to you, John?” Malcolm asks a question that he already knows the answer to.

“It means the world to me if she could maybe come around,” says John.

Malcolm hopes for the best, but prepares for the worst. He brings a fragrant bouquet of peonies and green ivy specially arranged by a florist. And a box of blueberry pie.

“How thoughtful of you, Mr. Bright. But I’m allergic to pollen. And someone should’ve told you that blueberry is for the summer. Apple pie would’ve been fine,” declares Matilda Watkins. John straightens up from the oven, kitty cat oven mitts on, with three TV dinners piping hot on a metal tray.

“I forgot to tell him, Gam Gam,” says John.

“He should know these things. You’re too old not to, young man,” says Matilda. “But since he’s your friend, Johnnie, we forgive.”

Malcolm finishes cutting a slice of the pie. He blinks rapidly when he catches the sneer reflected in the knife. Most of their dinner is him nudging the pre-made dinner with his fork. He smiles at John who digs into the pie first, the mood lightened. John holds Malcolm's hand on the tabletop while Matilda obliviously gossips about the people she’s “praying” for.

After Matilda finishes dinner, she declares that she wants to watch TV in the living room with the old gas fireplace. John sits beside her on the couch. Malcolm hovers with a plate, his pie largely untouched. The pie tin and a slicing knife rest on the low coffee table. Matilda has two slices of pie with a glass of milk. The plastic cover on Matilda’s couch squeaks as John turns to his grandmother.

John speaks up over the TV. “Gam Gam, I’m getting married,” he says.

“Is it to that hussy Mrs. Taylor? She got to you, didn’t she? I knew she was in your garage for more than engine problems!”

At John’s hesitation, Matilda keeps going. “You don’t want someone who’s got mileage.”

“Gam Gam, I’m getting married. It’s not to Mrs. Taylor.”

“Well, who is she?” demands Matilda.

“Malcolm,” answers John.

For a moment, she says nothing. Then she rounds on Malcolm. “Mr. Bright! Were you about to chime in? Do you know who Johnnie’s fallen in with?”

“With your blessings, Mrs. Watkins, John and I wish to be married,” says Malcolm. “I love your… son. I’m hoping that the time I spent at your house shows you how much--”

“John Watkins! For shame! You will show Mr. Bright to the door. And he will never come around here again. This is a godly house!”

Matilda hisses at Malcolm. “Get out! Get out of my house! Get out of our lives!” The situation spirals further out of hand when she feels around for the pie tin and starts waving around the knife.

“Gam Gam, no!”

“And as for you, Mister, I am calling the police on you. I was so proud of your work. My Johnnie, out there in the world, wiping out filth! But all along, you were living a double life. You’re trashy, too. You belong in jail for the evil you’ve done!” shouts Matilda. She jabs the knife into the table to emphasize her point.

John lets her stumble around the coffee table. The milk spills when she knocks over her glass.

“Where’s she going?” asks Malcolm.

“The phone. She’s going to turn me in, Malcolm. You need to leave. It’s over.”

“Okay,” chirps Malcolm, pulling on his kid gloves. He grabs the knife and gets a few seconds’ head start, skipping to Mrs. Watkins hunched over her rotary phone. John moves slower due to his tender abdomen. He doesn’t get to his grandmother in time when Malcolm kills the switch hook.

Blood sprays over the figurines of angels and saints arranged on the mantle of the fireplace. Malcolm drives the edge of the knife deeper into her neck, satisfied when blood drips from the angel music box gifted by Matilda’s late husband. The gaping wound opening both carotids is the only thing wider than Malcolm’s delighted smile as she paints the floor.

John boxes him in the head, but it doesn’t stop Malcolm from stabbing the knife into her heart, which he can feel pumping harder to compensate for the loss of blood volume. Malcolm doesn’t remember unbuttoning his suit jacket, an unconscious act which increases his range of motion. Her blood seeps into his skin like a warm hug as he straddles her.

The phone sounds a low hum after the aborted call, accompanying the death rattle of Matilda’s last breath.

John grabs at the knife handle. The corner of the knife digs into Malcolm’s palm, but the kid leather glove protects his skin. Malcolm lets John take over. He’s thrilled by John’s hand curled around the old woman’s blood.

“What did… did you do, Mal?” croaks John. His tears are genuine, crying on his knees. His other hand compresses her cotton shirt to stem the flow of blood.

“I did it for you, Johnnie.” Malcolm peels off his gloves and encircles John’s death grip with his clean hands. John holds the knife, but Malcolm pushes on the bottom of the handle with a steady rhythm, smiling naughtily when noises like wet flesh pounding fills the silent room.

A moan cuts through the bloodlust. Malcolm quickly glances at the corpse’s face before he realizes that he’s the one moaning. He gasps when John brings the knife to his chin. The thin edge is heated by the fresh body that they made together.

The plastic cover on the couch squeals as Malcolm sprawls onto the cushions. His legs ache where he bumped the coffee table. He’s going to bruise, if John doesn’t kill him first.

“You will pay for this, little Malcolm. I swear on my grandmother’s blood. That one day, I’ll kill someone. She will die knowing that it’s because of you,” vows Watkins. Pain crosses his sweaty face as he stoops over.

The bloody knife stains Malcolm’s shirt before the buttons pop off. John gashes the fabric and tears away the loose layers. Malcolm lifts his chin, and obeys when John tells him to remove his pants. The knife comes down and Malcolm yelps. At John’s low chuckle, Malcolm opens his eyes. He sees his terrified eyes mirrored in the blade embedded in the couch.

“Stay. Stay here,” orders John.

“Y-yes, dear,” says Malcolm.

John’s shoes clump as he leaves the room, tracking blood on the floor. Malcolm stares at the dead woman between the spread of his bare legs. The cold sneer warps his mouth once more. Malcolm takes the liberty of stripping the plastic cover from the couch. Putting his naked body on the pristine couch fabric gives Malcolm unfettered joy.

John returns with a bottle of baby oil.

“You know what to do,” says John.

Malcolm catches the bottle tossed his way. The baby oil pools in his hand and spills onto the couch, leaving a greasy spot that will never come out. Malcolm oils his fingers and starts with his middle finger. He is eye level with the unmistakable bulge under John’s pajamas. Malcolm pushes through the tight ring of muscle and clenches around his own finger. His cock leaks as he watches John roll down the waistband of his blue plaid pajamas.

John’s tool is huge. The girth of his cock is almost equal to the width of his scrotum freed from his plain gray boxers. Malcolm’s mouth waters. He had hoped, but he hadn’t dared imagine. Malcolm squeezes his cock and gets in one more finger before John grabs him by the hair. 

Blood covers the black sickle tattooed on John’s forearm. John’s bloody hand reddens the gloriously wide head of his proud member. He shudders when Malcolm tongues the tip of his cock, greedily despite the blood. Or perhaps because of it. Malcolm is eager to choke on it, but John plans otherwise. He watches Malcolm clean the blood off of his cock.

Then John lowers himself onto the couch. His hand covers his belly, the site of the incision that took a month to heal.

Malcolm makes himself relax around three fingers and one pinkie. John adds in his own finger and a bleating cry spills from Malcolm’s lips from the burning sensation of John stretching him so intimately.

“God, John!” Malcolm begs plaintively. “Can I ride you now? Please?”

“You may. But go easy on me. It’s my first time,” says John.

As soon as Malcolm straddles him and mounts him from on top, John screws him then and there. Malcolm crashes onto him, filling up on pain as much as pleasure. He comes hard and fast, almost immediately from the weeks, no months, of passion dammed up for John. It’s like their river is washing over him. Waves rise above Malcolm’s head, but he breathes in deeply because it’s John inside him and surrounding him. John’s greasy and rough hands on his arched back is everything. As are the beard hairs chafing his face from the violent clash of their lips.

“Oh Jesus, Jesus,” groans John. He stills Malcolm’s hips, grabs him hard enough to leave fingerprints. Malcolm trembles from John getting off. He can almost count how many times John’s come spurts into his raw ass.

John needs to sleep after coming his brains out. Malcolm jumps into the shower to wash off the blood and inspect his hands and arms for incriminating injuries. When the water runs clear down the drain, Malcolm relaxes. He goes into John’s wardrobe and borrows clothes. He brings a spare set for when John wakes up.

John takes Tylenol with water. “It was my Gam Gam who told my Pops to put my puppy in the garage. It was negative 2 degrees. He was such a good boy, kept me from getting lonely. Why the heck am I remembering it now.”

“It’s because you’re safe. You can have these thoughts without fear of punishment.” Malcolm gently touches John’s chest as he helps his lover change into clean and dry clothes. 

“We have to move her body and clean up,” says Malcolm.

“I have a better idea. I need you to go into the garage. There’s a large case in there that you will put in my work truck.”

Malcolm does what he is told. Then he goes into John’s room, pushes past the license plate swinging on the door, and grabs the messy blanket. He throws the bundle into the work truck along with the locked case which is for a guitar.

John leaves the house, locks the door. His pajama pockets are stretched around small personal effects which he gathered on the way out.

“Johnnie?” says Malcolm. “Shouldn’t we…?”

“Did you get my Pops’s guitar?” He dares Malcolm to challenge him.

At Malcolm’s nod, John tells him tersely, “Then get in the truck. And don’t touch that dial!”

Malcolm clambers in quietly. John gets in the driver’s seat and moves his truck to street parking. Nostalgic tunes drift between them and Malcolm grows weary.

“What are we waiting for?” he asks.

“A move from God,” answers John.

Malcolm nods off, but is awakened by a magnificent boom that shatters the street, setting off the car alarms. Waves of heat ripple along the windshield. John’s childhood home is blown to smithereens. The roof is on fire, on ground level, smoking acrid black from the chimney into the starlight.

“The thing about these old houses is sometimes the fireplace springs a gas leak,” John informs him. A charred metal plate clangs against the roof of the truck.

“I really don’t have anyone else,” says John. “There’s just you now.”

“You with me, and me with you,” promises Malcolm. Their faces are illuminated by the infernal blaze. John aggravates his surgical wounds for another kiss that’s even hotter.

What remains of a broken home is the scorched license plate bearing John’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muse: *eight projected chapters instead of seven* Do you wanna talk about it?
> 
> Author: No.


	7. Sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more fam, more feud

Malcolm is reading on his phone, at a clothing boutique on 48 Street, when the tailor gets his attention. He sticks the phone in his breast pocket and immediately goes to his fiancé.

John awaits his appraisal. Malcolm takes in the alterations to John’s appearance. Besides the black two-piece suit, the wiry bristles of John’s beard are trimmed closer to his jawline. Without the split hairs, John’s facial hair looks darker. The hair on John’s upper lip is almost black, but not on his chin. John’s chin is graced by gray wisps that are white at the ends, creating a subtle halo. The hair crowning John’s head is hidden by the black beanie.

Malcolm’s fingers stroke the collar of John’s suit jacket. He tugs the black beanie from John’s head. Instead of the slick overgrown gray strands which usually hang in limp tendrils around the corners of John’s creased and darkened under eyes, Malcolm tucks back fresh cut locks that now fall into a dark, flattering shape. The barber took a lot of hair off the sides of John’s head and cleaned up his nape, but left the healthy growth. Malcolm adores the wide band of gray hair contrasted against John’s natural black roots.

The barber, after exfoliating John’s scalp to treat the dandruff, forbade John from using any more mineral oil to slick back his hair. John’s hair is shiny but no longer weighted down from oil. The ends of John’s hair fan out and shift with his movements in a way that grabs Malcolm’s attention from all else.

“Hi,” says Malcolm, his bottom lip catching between his teeth.

“Hello, yourself,” says John. “Give me back my hat.”

“Mr. Brambilla, you have outdone yourself,” declares Malcolm to the tailor. He tosses the beanie behind the three-way mirror and crooks his arm into John’s. “Do you have the other suit ready, the one that’s not black?”

“We will have it delivered to your address soon, if you are pleased with what your fiancé is modeling for you,” promises Mr. Brambilla the tailor.

“Absolutely. See that you do,” agrees Malcolm.

“Malcolm!” hisses John. “I agreed to one suit!”

“But this one is for the funeral, dear,” says Malcolm. “Now Mr. Brambilla has your measurements, meaning that I won’t drag you from the garage for our next occasion.”

“What color is the other one, dear?” says John, his brows furrowed.

“Powder blue with ruffles,” says Malcolm impishly. “Or maybe I commissioned a bright red piece?”

He laughs at the displeasure darkening John’s frown. Malcolm’s hands dart beneath the unbuttoned lapels of John’s black two-piece suit. “Relax. I picked out a normal gray color. No need to look like you want to kill something.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” says John. He gets his arms around Malcolm’s waist. “I think red looks better on you.”

Malcolm smiles at their reflection in the mirror, his expression briefly dimming when he catches sight of his left hand, the ring finger conspicuously absent of the engagement ring which John promised.

The insurance money from Matilda Watkins’ homeowners policy is taking its sweet time getting to John who is her primary beneficiary. The burned out shell of John’s childhood home was attributed to a gas leak explosion, an act of God according to the Christian based company insuring the Watkins family.

Malcolm sets aside the flicker of disappointment. After all, he caused his fiancé much sorrow. He is the reason why John must bury the woman who raised him, such as she was. Her murder is the only death on his hands which Malcolm chooses not to regret. He expects for John to call off their wedding. John hasn’t touched Malcolm again nor physically reached for Malcolm since his grandmother’s death. 

Instead, John lets Malcolm stand by his side as Matilda’s casket gets lowered. Malcolm doesn’t pull away when John takes his hand. He doesn’t miss the looks which John gets from the godly bunch who mourn their sister in Christ. Malcolm squeezes back. He doesn’t need a fancy diamond ring to do that much, but still he is anxious for John to deliver on his promises.

As Malcolm took off a whole day from work to attend the Watkins funeral, they walk to John’s work truck which will take them to their next destination. Malcolm, from the passenger seat, enjoys how the seat belt settles over John’s tailored suit. Despite a diet of six-cheese pizzas and home brewed spirits, John’s proportions are favorable in Malcolm’s eyes.

When they are parked at their destination, John pulls down the sun visor and glares into the mirror.

“You look good,” says Malcolm.

“I don’t look like myself,” retorts John.

“That’s about right, for high society,” points out Malcolm. “John Watkins, gracing the articles on Page Six news.” Malcolm reaches over and puts his hand on his fiancé’s trouser leg. “But in private, you’re Johnnie. You can do this. It’s just another cover for who you really are.”

To him, John is becoming. 

“What would you think about John Whitly? Would you… could you love that guy, too?” wonders John.

“Yes, Johnnie. I do,” says Malcolm. Malcolm loves the sound of it. He loves the idea of John casting away the name of his abusers. “And so would he.”

Though John snorts and rolls his eyes, his callused hand desperately closes over Malcolm’s, with extra pressure to mask how much he’s shaking. Despite his stressors, John can keep up with Malcolm as they venture into the bowels of Claremont Psychiatric Hospital.

“Hello, Mr. David,” says Malcolm before they continue further along crimson passageways.

“Hey, Malcolm. I’ve got a lady, Ms. Blanchard, who says that she’s meeting you as well.”

“She’s already here? A bit earlier than what we agreed. Was she waiting long?” asks Malcolm. He’s already thinking of how to work around the unexpected development.

“Actually, she didn’t wait at all,” answers Mr. David. He brings them to a young, blond woman who sits on a metal chair with an ice pack over her right hand. “I would’ve escorted her out of the building, if not for the injury she took in Martin’s cell.”

Malcolm and John are treated to Mr. David’s rare smile. “I’ll allow Ms. Blanchard to explain.”

“Hi, Malcolm,” says Eve. She tucks back a lock of her wavy blond hair and sees John. “Who’s this?”

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” asks Malcolm. “I didn’t expect Dr. Whitly to physically harm you.”

“Well, I… What happened was…. I, uh, maybe I crossed a line,” says Eve, blinking faster before she admits to hitting The Surgeon, renowned serial killer.

“Jesus, oh, Jesus,” laughs John. He puts a hand over his heart, hooting away. “If he ever gets out, you’re a marked woman, Ms. Blanchard.”

“Excuse me, that’s not funny,” huffs Eve.

“My father’s escape is also extremely unlikely given that he’s chained to the wall. I imagine that’s why you left his cell unscathed,” says Malcolm. He corrects himself and gestures at her ice pack. “A little scathed.”

“Word to the wise, Ms. Blanchard. You want to tuck your thumb over the top of your fingers but tucked in as if it’s reaching for your pinky. Make yourself comfy before you punch a man,” advises John.

“Duly noted,” says Eve with a pout. “Even if I wanted to, I won’t be going back in there.”

“It’s for your own good, Miss. You wait right here,” says Mr. David. He turns to John sternly. “I trust you know better than to cross the red line.”

“I’ll be keeping away sharpish,” assures John. He turns to Malcolm. “But I’m happy to be out here if you think that might work out better.”

“We go in together,” affirms Malcolm. He takes the lead as he enters his father’s cell, but John is soon beside him.

Martin Whitly paces as aggressively as his tethers will allow. His curls fall out of place from his futile prowling. “She struck me, Malcolm! Your lady friend struck me! After giving me the third degree!!” Whatever else that Martin means to snarl cuts off when he notices the man at Malcolm’s side.

“Hi, Dad,” says Malcolm.

“Who… is _this_?” says Martin. His tone of voice de-escalates, anger petering out as interest in his son’s companion takes over. He’s taking in John’s custom made suit and well groomed appearance, but also the shoulders back posture that reveals John’s discomfiture.

“This is John, my fiancé. We’re getting married,” says Malcolm.

“Is Ms. Blanchard not your intended?” asks Martin.

“Eve is a family friend,” answers Malcolm. “She should have waited for my arrival. And so should have you, Dad.”

“What a pity. She is a lovely spitfire, despite her heavy fist. Very much your type, my boy,” says Martin shrewdly with a calculated dismissive attitude towards John.

“My intended is here,” points out Malcolm. He touches John’s shoulder and gulps when John takes a bold step toward the thin, red line.

“What’s up, Doc?” says John. “Or should I call you Dad?”

“You!” Martin leans back before his arm extends toward Malcolm, gesturing frantically. “My boy, get away from this man, immediately. You don’t know what he is!”

“John is my everything. It’s too late for that now, Dr. Whitly,” says Malcolm. “I am sorry that Eve Blanchard hit you. I had meant for her to break the ice before introducing you to my fiancé.”

“So her questions about Sophie Sanders…”

“Ms. Blanchard’s inquiries are very much genuine,” says Malcolm. “Backed by Mother’s pledge of one million dollars for any information regarding Ms. Blanchard’s long lost sister, Sophie Sanders.”

“If you have any true concern as to Ms. Blanchard’s safety… nay, her personal well-being… you will shut this down,” says Martin. “Listen to your father. In this long-buried matter, you will heed your father, Malcolm Whitly.”

“The dead have the right to stay dead,” says Malcolm, tossing his father’s own words right back at him.

“Do they now?” interrupts John. Mr. David maintains his presence, but the reliable guard remains unaware of the leer chasing around John’s gleeful face.

Malcolm’s breath catches as John wraps an arm around his middle, fingers splayed over the bones of his hips. John’s palm casually runs up and down the silken lining of Malcolm’s waistcoat. Malcolm feels the skin on his face burning hot from his father’s eyes and John’s touch on his body. John broadcasts his message loud and clear to Martin.

“Give us the room, little Malcolm,” says John.

“That might be for the best. Mr. David will keep us both in line,” says Martin. Though he resumes his genial tone, his gray brows gather in fury, eyes crackling in a staring contest with Malcolm’s fiancé.

“Fine. I’ll wait outside,” says Malcolm.

Eve is still there. Her ice pack sloshes. “Any luck?”

“You made one heck of an impression on my father,” says Malcolm. 

“Who is that guy in there with The Surgeon?” asks Eve. “Is he like another negotiator?”

“Something like that. He’s probably the only one who can persuade Dr. Whitly. Or rather, to leverage with my father. I’m going to help you figure out what happened to your sister, Eve. Then maybe I can put the girl in the box to rest,” says Malcolm.

Eve responds by squeezing his arm. They are two haunted people, briefly joined by their mutual obsessions. “What does your guy want? What does Dr. Whitly want?”

“Me,” says Malcolm.

Before Eve can inquire further, Mr. David opens the door to Martin’s cell and gestures for Malcolm to rejoin them. Eve and Malcolm look at one another when Mr. David calls out to Eve.

“You, too, Ms. Blanchard. Dr. Whitly has something to discuss, if you can keep your hands and feet to yourself,” says Mr. David.

Eve takes the chastisement for the warning that it is. “I’ll try not to hurt the serial killer’s feelings.”

Malcolm rushes the door, letting out a breath when he sees his fiancé in one piece.

Martin gives her a name, but it’s not the one she was hoping for. “Ms. Blanchard, you may get in touch with my attorney: Everett Stirling. In two days’ time. We’ll sort this, provided that I’m treated as any citizen with civil rights.”

“One business day,” says Eve. “I can sit on this for one day before I pursue legal recourse.”

“Won’t you reconsider your choice in partner, my boy? Truly, she is your match,” says Martin. He casts a furtive look between Eve and Malcolm. “You already know one another, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Have your people call mine, Dr. Whitly,” says Eve. “Mr. David?”

While Mr. David escorts Eve from the cell, John approaches Malcolm. Both of his hands cradle Malcolm’s face.

“Johnnie?”

“Your father’s given us his blessings,” says John.

“It was more of a trade,” says Martin. “Or rather, should I say, it was an extortion. Aided and abetted by my own son. Malcolm, you have forced my hand. Very well played.”

“What have you done, John?” demands Malcolm. His eyes flutter shut as John’s thumbs stroke his cheeks.

“How would you like to have your father back, little Malcolm?” says John.

“You don’t mean jailbreak,” says Malcolm. He steps out of John’s hold.

“Don’t be silly,” says Martin. He smiles for Mr. David. “Marriage, my dear boy, is a journey. You’ll need my words of wisdom, whether or not you choose to follow my example. I merely wish for the opportunity to help you through your trials, of which there will be many.”

“John and I don’t need your help,” says Malcolm.

“We might,” says John. Malcolm is aghast by the change in attitude. “Your father needs our help. I think he’s repented for his mistakes.”

“Other people’s mistakes,” says Martin. “My decisions were what they were.”

Martin can do nothing as John gets on one knee before Malcolm. He presents his ring. It’s a thick gold ring with the Sacred Heart of Christ set in black. The design is of a heart crowned by golden flame and planted with a cross. The year of 1995 is boldly engraved on the side. The numbers extend from one edge of the ring’s band to the other edge. Malcolm reads the inscription ‘Before thee we kneel’ which is partially obscured by the resizing bar fitted on the band.

“It’s not a diamond ring, Malcolm. I’ve had this since I graduated Catholic school. That’s why it’s black epoxy resin instead of a real stone,” says John. “Will you accept it anyways?”

Malcolm swipes at the single tear that rolls down his cheek. “Of course I do!!” He can barely contain himself from snatching it up. All he can see is John, putting the ring on his finger.

“How very… very,” says Martin, before they can kiss. “Would you care to take my advice on how to inform your mother and sister of your upcoming nuptials?”

Malcolm is in a generous mood with John’s ring and John’s arms encircling him. His expectations have been joyfully exceeded, no matter his father’s opinion.

“What do you think, Dr. Whitly?” indulges Malcolm. From his peripheral view, John’s excitement would be apparent to the blind and the visually impaired. John’s eyes flicker to and fro, from Malcolm’s finger to his flushed and wet face.

“Your mother is the sort to look for problems. I highly recommend creating one for her. Your sister, too. She doesn’t get that from _me_ ,” says Martin.

* * *

“The things you do for love,” mutters John. He regrets opening his mouth when he catches a little bit of the spray from the bottle of Axe in Malcolm’s determined grip. John is already unhappy about the wood glue and the hair spray making his hair stand up in a pompadour.

Malcolm and John fall on each other, laughing when they both get the full effect. John is wearing a pastel leisure suit fitted with rusted brass chains. The front of the slouchy suit jacket is studded with metal rivets discolored by the passing times. John is wearing a pinky ring that looks like dice, with the stones fallen out.

As tacky as John’s appearance is, Malcolm can’t quite take his eyes from the chest hairs showing from a half buttoned blouse.

“I look like an Elvis impersonator. A very sad one,” says John. It was either the pastel leisure suit with flared bottoms or a black stuff jacket brocaded with the blues.

“We could skip town and get married in Vegas. No one would be the wiser,” says Malcolm.

“Now there’s a headline. Married to Elvis in Vegas,” says John. “Let’s just get this over with, sugar.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘Let’s rock ‘n’ roll’, Mr. Presley?” quips Malcolm. By the look on John’s face, he knows that he will pay for this.

The only person more displeased than John is Jessica Whitly.

“That wretched woman! I was invited on false pretenses!” exclaims Malcolm’s mother.

As a favor to Malcolm, Eve told Jessica about tonight’s dinner, luring her in with the promise of big news. Eve is, of course, nowhere on the premises. Eve has her work cut out for her after a conference with Everett Stirling, the attorney representing one Martin Whitly.

“So, how did you two meet?” asks Ainsley.

“Through a mutual associate,” answers Malcolm, hedging the truth carefully.

“We really hit it off, Mrs. Whitly. Or maybe I should call you Mom,” says John.

Jessica takes the bait, especially when the question of the pre-nuptial agreement comes up. Malcolm notices Ainsley’s focused scrutiny on John. Ainsley isn’t looking at his hip threads or bling or how John jabs the salad fork into his main course. Malcolm reads semi-recognition in Ainsley’s micro-expressions. 

Ainsley’s cold reaction scares him more than his mother’s venomous disapproval. He is proud of his baby sister, but he is obliged to subvert any serious investigations into John’s background, at any cost.

Malcolm picks a Saturday six months into the future.

“Not a single dime will go towards your wedding until you draw up the necessary agreements,” says Jessica. She pointedly does not pick up the cheque for dinner. Malcolm expects as much, and frowns at John, shaking his head, when John moves to grab it. John’s role is to be the moocher, a necessary evil in the lives of the rich and the famous. Their mutual refusal to sign documents protecting Malcolm’s fortune will keep Jessica sufficiently diverted for weeks, if not months.

“That went down like a lead balloon,” says John. They’re outside the restaurant. Malcolm stands with him while Jessica and Ainsley await their chauffeur. Malcolm will be leaving with his family when Adolpho arrives for a downright combative car ride.

“According to plan. Mother is incredulous, repulsed, appalled, and suspicious for the wrong reasons,” says Malcolm. His lips twitch in a smile before he leverages a smooch. “I don’t believe her personal opinion of her offspring has ever dipped lower. Including my expulsion from Remington School.”

“What did you do?” asks John, with a snort. “Too many overdue library books?”

“Lucky guess,” says Malcolm, averting his eyes. He gasps when John grabs him and dips him into a kiss that makes him pulse inside his trousers. Considering John’s chameleon nature, Malcolm shouldn’t be too surprised by how well his lover assumes different personas. Not even Martin recognized his old friend, until John chose to reveal himself.

Intrigue prickles the forefront of Malcolm’s attention. He has yet to figure out the nature of what was exchanged between his father and his lover at Claremont. Much could be exchanged in those scant moments.

“Who is John Watkins?” asks Ainsley, when they stroll together on Main Street, passing underneath the Manhattan Bridge. Groups of teenagers chill on picnic blankets, playlist on blast over the dogs palling around on the lawn. The air is almost yellow, from the approaching summer.

“He loves me, Ains. And I love him back,” says Malcolm. His thumb rubs at the warm golden ring.

“He’s got a record, in case he didn’t tell you. Busted for solicitation of prostitution,” says Ainsley. “Your John was a john.”

Malcolm shakes his head. “It was a misunderstanding. The judge ruled his offense as a violation. He was released from jail in less than fifteen days, with a fine.”

“What was the misunderstanding? What could he possibly be doing at Hunts Point in the Bronx?” demands Ainsley.

“He was lost, Ains. People can get lost,” says Malcolm. He acknowledges John’s clumsy stalking before John wised up to the game and learned to spot undercover agents of the law. At the time, John was hunting for a damned soul going about its sinful business.

“Well, he found you, bro,” says Ainsley, chest puffed out, nose sticking into Malcolm’s personal life.

Ainsley’s phone rings. She ignores it, waiting on Malcolm to explain his sudden blind spot in the shape of John Watkins. The moment breaks them apart when Malcolm’s phone goes off once Ainsley’s goes dead. They both face each other with raised brows when they see that their mother called them.

“Oh, shit,” says Ainsley as the group text comes in like a flurry, for both of them. “She knows I’m working!”

“I’ll hail a taxi,” says Malcolm once he checks his texts. He waves at her, smiling because his sister hates being the last to know. “I’ll get you the Cliffnotes, Ains.”

The taxi takes him to the legal offices of Everett Stirling, one of the places which he never expected for his mother Jessica Whitly to step a peep-toe heel inside. Sitting beside Jessica is Eve Blanchard, in a black pinstripe dress suit, genuine pearl earrings, and a red lip.

Everett Stirling receives Malcolm graciously.

“Malcolm,” says Jessica curtly.

“Hello, son!” greets Martin on speaker phone. “We were just talking about you.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re staging an intervention,” says Malcolm.

“Not exactly, kid,” says another voice, from over the phone call.

“Gil?” asks Malcolm. “What are you doing in jail?”

“Har har. I’m at Claremont on official business,” says Gil. “Sorry I couldn’t tell ya, kid. I didn’t want to get your hopes up until we knew for sure.”

“Your father was just informing us that he’s had time to reflect since Eve quite literally slapped some sense into him,” says Jessica, almost purring.

“So it’s an Eve, not an Adam, who has cuckolded me,” says Martin. His quip wipes the smile from Jessica’s face.

“Lieutenant Arroyo, can you please display the photos to the inmate?” says Eve shortly.

While Martin and Gil deliberate over the phone, attorney Everett Stirling briefs Malcolm as to the purpose of their meeting.

“As you may be well aware, Mr. Bright, the lenient terms of your father’s special accommodations under psychiatric care was contingent on his full cooperation in disclosing the identities of his victims,” says Everett.

“All of his victims,” adds Jessica. “But if we can get in one new murder charge, Mister Whitly can kiss his suite living goodbye.”

“Not so fast, Jessie,” says Martin.

“Dr. Whitly, focus!!” Gil’s voice raises in volume. “Everyone, I have a full spread of photos lined up for Dr. Whitly’s perusal. Women of similar age and appearance to one photo provided by Ms. Blanchard. If he can verify which young woman is Sophie Sanders, we have an open and shut case.”

“Isn’t that wonderful news, Malcolm? All these years we couldn’t find anything on the girl in the box,” says Jessica.

“Martin, wait a minute,” says Everett. “My client is not in violation of his deal. The terms state that Martin is obligated to come forward with the victims whose identities he could confirm. If he were to meet a nice girl in a park, who did not possess her wallet or ID on her person, Martin could not be expected to produce her name.”

“Excuse me, are we acting on an honor system? With my serial killer ex-husband?” scoffs Jessica.

“Dr. Whitly, did you kill my sister?!”

“Don’t answer that, Martin,” says Everett. “Everyone, I believe that my client is under a lot of pressure. For his mental health, I’m ending this meeting. I am very sorry to waste the time and resources of the NYPD, but I am acting in my client’s best interests. Unless we can be sure that allegations of another victim will undergo a fair and unbiased investigation, my client will not be forced to speak or act against his own welfare.”

“All your client has to do is pick and choose from a row of faces. He’s done it before,” says Gil pointedly.

“Lieutenant Arroyo, can you guarantee an unbiased investigation, given your long-standing association with Jessica Whitly and Malcolm Bright?” retorts Everett.

“This isn’t over,” says Gil. A shuffling of papers can be heard over the line.

“Shame on you, Martin,” says Jessica.

“I’m afraid my memory’s fogged by my long imprisonment nigh on one and twenty years,” says Martin. “I can hardly recall my own mother’s face, never mind that of a beloved sister.”

“Son of a bitch,” says Eve. Her chair slams into the conference table as she stalks toward the door.

Malcolm leaps to his feet and dances around chairs into the doorway. “Wait! Wait, if Dr. Whitly won’t cooperate, there’s the nuclear option.”

“I’m listening,” says Eve, crossing her arms.

“We can search the basement. It would be an informal process, but we could make a discovery which links The Surgeon to your sister,” says Malcolm.

“It’s been decades,” says Jessica. “Almost anyone could get access.”

“Not where you bricked it up, Mother,” says Malcolm. “Dad’s workshop! It’s been sealed since the police extracted evidence.”

“Best of luck on your search, Eevie. Are you as brave as you are fair?” interjects Martin.

A disgusted expression crosses Jessica’s face before she hangs up the line. She slams the phone twice for good measure, over Everett Stirling’s protests.

“I am not afraid!” declares Eve. “You can keep your million dollars, Jessica. I would rather have a look around The Surgeon’s lair.”

“He did not have a lair. Not in my house!” exclaims Jessica.

“It was a bit lair-y, Mother,” says Malcolm.

Jessica is confronted by Eve’s red-rimmed eyes and Malcolm’s own haunted look.

“Nothing that you produce on that search would incriminate Martin Whitly or be admissible in court. Reasonable doubt exists that further evidence could’ve been planted,” says Everett.

“You’re making the presumption that I’m out for blood,” says Eve. “I’m happy to let that man rot in his comfortable cell. All I want is the truth.”

“The last place you’d get the truth is from a malignant narcissist,” says Malcolm.

* * *

Noteworthy records of Sophie Sanders do not exist. However, Malcolm thinks he’s onto something when he researches public records of Amelia M. Sanders. She is a person with fair credit, no black marks on her rental history in NYC, and was self-employed as a contractor for larger entities such as Endicott Enterprises prior to changing its business name to Endicott Pharmaceuticals.

If not for the fact that Amelia M. Sanders was deceased in South Carolina, her background raises zero suspicion. Malcolm supposes that a resourceful girl with her mother’s wallet and jewelry could make a life for herself in a big city. 

A public hearing from too many parking violations becomes a hunt for police reports made in the service area, search frame within the times listed on the tickets. Malcolm is pleased to unearth unsolved burglaries and reports of stalking and harassment by the victims of said burglaries. He digs into cold cases, and recognizes the name of a burglary victim who later perished in an arson attack, no witnesses. Malcolm confirms that the Sanders girl’s business enjoyed a net increase coinciding with the major crime.

As a contractor for hire, Sophie Sanders was on no one’s payroll.

Malcolm shreds the research he conducted for curiosity’s sake.

The next time that he sees Eve Blanchard is in the basement. She has a sledgehammer buried in the relatively thin wall built over the entrance of Dr. Whitly’s workshop.

“This is surprisingly cathartic,” says Eve after she pulls off a pink dust mask to catch a breather from the ensuing dust. She’s in high waisted denims, brown cowgirl boots embroidered with little white daisies and a black and white plaid shirt knotted over her bare midriff. Her blond hair is gathered into mini buns, showing off the pearl studs in her ears. 

“Yee haw?” says Jessica, nursing a whiskey. Her tongue trails the brim of her cup as she watches Eve break down some walls.

“I’ll take a whack at it,” says Ainsley.

“Do it. Stick it to the old man,” replies Eve.

Ainsley ties her thin infinity scarf over her nose and mouth before she leans into the handle to elongate the hole. “I’ll be the one to bust this open!”

Things go more efficiently with Gil’s arrival. He’s in black jeans and a navy blue V-neck after he zips off a gray sleeveless hoodie.

“Why didn’t you ladies put down any sheeting?” asks Gil. He brings a utility knife and stud finder. He is the first one to pay attention to the electric reciprocating saw with the long, flat cutting blade.

“Why aren’t you cutting sections into the drywall?” questions Gil to Malcolm.

“I was voted off of power saw duties,” says Malcolm dryly. “Even though I’m the one who’s borrowing it from my fiancé.”

“Fair point,” says Gil. Then he turns to Malcolm with his jaw dropped. “Wait. From your what? I literally ate a sandwich wrap with you at a crime scene less than sixteen hours ago, and you didn’t think to mention it?!!”

“We don’t talk about Malcolm’s fiancé in polite conversation,” says Jessica. “Now are you going to gut this wall or must we dismantle the patriarchy ourselves?”

“I better get an invite,” says Gil. “When do I meet the future Mrs. Bright?”

“Oh, this’ll be good,” says Ainsley.

“You’ll meet my fiancé in about five minutes. He’ll be picking up his tools tonight,” says Malcolm.

“Great, you invited him to the smash party,” says Jessica through her upturned grimace. “I can’t believe you gave him my address. He could be a serial killer! Or worse, a pick-up artist.”

“Mrs. Whitly? The handyman is here,” calls down a uniformed domestic helper who minces down the basement steps.

“Riffraff,” mutters Jessica. Out loud, she says, “Send him down, Katja. That will be all.”

“Hidey ho, family,” says John.

“We’ll see about that. How about you help us with our drywall issue, Mr. Watkins?” asks Jessica. She looks at Gil with betrayal when Gil extends his hand for a friendly shake.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” says Gil before he introduces himself.

“So you’re the boss,” says John. He gives Gil his name before he surveys their handiwork.

“Why didn’t you guys put down any plastic?” asks John, scratching his head. He shrugs off his slouchy pastel blazer and helps Gil pull out large sections of cut drywall.

Eve and Ainsley take turns knocking down the other side of the drywall before they rush into the workshop. John follows them after grabbing a cordless lantern.

“Your fiancé seems pretty sensible,” says Gil.

“If he were sensible, he and Malcolm would sign the damned prenup,” says Jessica.

“We both decided not to. We’re not betting against our marriage,” replies Malcolm.

“Ugh, love in its first bloom,” says Jessica.

“Me and Jackie didn’t do any prenup.”

Malcolm looks between Gil and his mother before he opts to lurk into the creepy workshop.

He comes upon Ainsley with her arm around Eve’s shoulder. Each drawer in Martin’s old desk has been pulled off the rollers, its contents littering the dusty floor. Eve is weeping into her balled up fists. A vein stands out on her forehead which looks ashen.

“What did I miss?” asks Malcolm.

“She found something. We should get her out of here,” says Ainsley.

John winks at Malcolm before he and his sister help Eve out of the dust. Jessica plies her with wine in the living room until she can breathe normally. Eve’s hand slackens and a golden bracelet tumbles into her lap.

“This was our Momma’s,” says Eve with trembling lips. “I knew it. I knew that my sister wouldn’t have just abandoned me unless _something_ happened. Oh my God. Finally!”

“Do you want the police to get involved, dear?” asks Jessica.

“I’ll think about it. I didn’t get past the moment of finding proof or making your husband-- ex-husband, sorry-- slip up. I want to call my mom. I gotta go and call my mom,” insists Eve.

“John was going to take me home. He can give you a lift, too. You still live near my therapist, right?” asks Malcolm.

“Can we leave now?” Eve leaps to her feet. Her hair spills over her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Jessica. I can’t…”

“No need to apologize, dear. Please. I’ll call you,” says Jessica.

John idles his truck while they watch Eve head into her apartment.

“Thank you, Johnnie,” says Malcolm. “Helping that poor woman get closure wasn’t a part of your mission.”

“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t pass up the chance to see you and your family play with power tools,” laughs John.

“They’re your family, too. Soon enough,” says Malcolm. From Eve’s, it’s a short drive to Malcolm’s neighborhood.

“Do you want to come up?” asks Malcolm.

“I have company tonight,” says John. His eyes gleam from the streetlight filtering through a dirty windshield when he leans over and undoes Malcolm’s seatbelt. Malcolm shivers from John's fingers running along the nylon strap. “But I can do a goodnight kiss.”

* * *

“I like your new ring, Bright,” says Isaac. His hair is longer, but the facility keeps him trimmed as part of Gardener’s policy.

“Thanks, Isaac. I’m getting married. If you’re released by then, would you like to attend my wedding?” asks Malcolm.

“What kinda cake?” Isaac has the important questions.

“You will have to come and get a slice for yourself,” says Malcolm. He smiles at Crystal who appears flabbergasted by news of his impending nuptials. “If your mom’s okay with it.”

“How long’s the wedding part?”

“At least half an hour to forty five minutes, tops. It’s pretty important to get that part right,” says Malcolm.

After visitation with Isaac ends, Malcolm speaks to Crystal. “For your information, I’m getting married to, um, my husband. Have you explained some things to Isaac?”

“We live in New York. He knows about husbands,” says Crystal dully. She looks more exhausted than usual. Though she wears her usual gym leggings, the oversized hoodie seems out of place with the less-than-stellar air conditioning in the visitation area where they usually meet with Isaac.

“When Isaac gets out of here, I’m going to have a lot more to explain to him,” says Crystal. Her sneakers kick the floor. “I have to figure out how to tell Isaac that I’m having a baby. When his father is dead and my boy toy hasn’t been around.”

“How far along?” says Malcolm. He’s starting to do the math.

“It’s probably yours. I can’t ask the other guy,” says Crystal.

“Then it’s a simple process of elimination. I will cooperate with paternity testing,” says Malcolm. “What were you planning to tell him?”

“It’s someone else’s baby. I’m renting out my uterus,” says Crystal.

She glares at him, daring Malcolm to judge her. “Isaac is my everything. This new life in me, I can’t keep it. He’ll kill it; can’t help himself. I’m already talking to adoption agencies.”

“We’re talking now,” says Malcolm. “Let me know when your next prenatal appointment is. I’ll submit to a cheek swab.”

“Geez, Bright. You move fast,” says Crystal. She smirks at him. Then her expression shifts into one of suspicion. “But what about your wedding plans?”

* * *

Malcolm tells John at his loft. It’s a night that they agreed to meet for wedding details.

John balls up the results of the paternity test and lobs it into a trash can overflowing with rejected wedding samples and outdated seating charts as the RSVPs trickle in. Then the trash can explodes into piles of fabric swatches, ribbons, decapitated flowers, and scented card stock after John punts the trash can in no particular direction. The trash can swivels the plasma screen TV on its stand before landing dented with the lid popped off.

“I just had the TV replaced,” says Malcolm. “After my mother did a number on it.”

“You are going to marry this girl. She’s having your brat. You’re marrying it,” rants John, pacing and stomping ferociously over the wedding themed garbage.

“Is that what you want, John?”

“Of course not! I wasn’t taking waltz lessons with you and going along with the dog and pony show for nothing!” yells John.

Malcolm remains sitting on the couch, his hands folded and his face bowed contritely.

“Christ on crackers! What is wrong with you?!” shouts John. “We had plans. I was going to be with you and you with me. It was working. We were gonna--” 

John flips the stools at the kitchen island. For several tense minutes, nothing can be heard but the clash of furniture sets impacting polished wood flooring. One of the stools bounces against the oven door. A glass pane cabinet door flies open. Racks of inverted wine glasses snap at the stems and tinkle brokenly into stainless steel sinks and a tray full of clean dishes.

Then Sunshine adds in her two cents with frantic cheeping. John stops when he hears Sunshine’s shrill cries. Malcolm grabs a dark square of muslin cloth and covers Sunshine’s cage.

“Shoot, I didn’t give your birdie a heart attack, did I?” John lowers the surviving stool and gently sets the cushioned seat on the polished countertop of the kitchen island.

“She’ll calm down. If we’re very quiet,” says Malcolm.

John resumes his verbal attacks, only this time hissed through his teeth, finger jabbing into Malcolm’s face, close enough to poke out one of Malcolm’s eyes. He is spitting mad. “You need to take responsibility! You’re going to be a parent! I expect you to raise that child right!”

“Is that what you want, John?”

“Yes! I expect you to do the right thing. If it was mine, I would!” His hushed voice raises in volume. Malcolm cowers when John extends his palm out, bending his fingers. “Gimme back my ring.”

“What if it’s your baby, too? If we got married and you adopted the baby as the father?” Malcolm talks fast as he sits on his hands, tucking his ring safely out of sight.

John looks nothing less than Gobsmacked. John perches on the coffee table, directly across from Malcolm. He pretzels his legs and steeples his fingers beneath his bearded chin.

“What about the mother of your child?”

“She’s got her eldest to think about. He’s special needs. We’re thinking of pursuing a closed adoption,” says Malcolm. “She’s not interested in re-marrying. Even if she were, she wouldn’t marry me. Her name would be Crystal Bright.”

“Is that a _joke_?” John squints at him. He needs less than half a reason to loosen Malcolm’s teeth.

“Her words, not mine,” says Malcolm, raising both hands in the air. “John, if you still want to go through with the wedding, you would be committed to not just me, but also a baby. It’s not the baby’s fault. You could make a difference.”

“You with me and a little one,” says John, his voice deepening as he weighs his words, their future.

“We would have a lot of support. Between my mother, my sister, and all the help that my family can afford. Please, Johnnie. Please say yes.” Malcolm’s heart is pretty much in his throat. Everything hinges on what John says and what John tells him to do.

Desire and uncertainty chase around the features of John’s face. His hair curls over his ears, sweaty from wrecking Malcolm’s apartment.

“You can name the baby,” entreats Malcolm. “Whatever you think is good. Although, if you can help it, I’m not a huge fan of the naming trends like Virtue, Temperance, Justice, or Faith. I’ve met too many sex workers named Hope. On the job. The FBI job. Not _on the job_.”

“Quiet, Malcolm,” says John. He looks up to heaven.

Malcolm looks up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muse: *humming* how many words, Author? 75k? 80k? 100k??? yo ho ho and a bottle of cum?
> 
> Author: noOOOoooOOOooo


	8. I Do (Cherish You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i do i do i do oooooooh

“Wakey, wakey, eggsy, bakey,” hears Malcolm. The whisper is accompanied by the aroma of a breakfast sandwich made with a small loaf of baguette. Malcolm can just tell that melted cheese is gluing the eggs to the fluffy, warm insides of the baguette.

“Johnnie?” Though the toasted breakfast sandwich smells great, it’s too heavy for his first meal of the day which vaguely swings from lunch to supper. Malcolm’s break-away fasteners click as he frees himself from his restraints. He’s at home in his loft, but John never stays overnight. As Malcolm rubs at his itchy eyes, he hungrily feasts upon the sight of John outfitted in a tailored black three-piece suit with a white shirt and black tie.

“Whose funeral are we attending today?” says Malcolm.

“Did you forget about the photo shoot that you scheduled? With your own sister?” says John.

“Central Park!” says Malcolm. He swears a blue trail from his tousled bed to the bathroom. Malcolm jumps into the shower to rinse off the night sweats. Then he towels off and brusquely goes to his wardrobe to pluck out the hanger with his own dress clothes for the photo shoot.

John licks ketchup from his lips when Malcolm drops the towel. John munches the toasted sandwich while Malcolm jumps into a dark crimson suit.

“I didn’t know you cared this much about photos,” says John. He scratches at his beard to shake out bread crumbs.

“We have to take these photos with the autumn leaves before they fall,” says Malcolm. He straightens the collar of his white shirt, tugs his black tie into the dark red waistcoat, and almost runs into John who offers him a tall, lidded styrofoam cup.

Malcolm sips from the straw and moans when the berry smoothie settles on his tongue. He drinks it down for the taxi ride.

“I won’t be able to cover your butt if you snooze through the wedding bells,” says John.

“Then I’ll stay up all night. It’s not a perfect solution, but it is relatively tried and true work around,” says Malcolm.

Ainsley drops him a pin of her location in Central Park. She brings her DSLR camera. They meet just before nine o’clock in the morning to take advantage of less passerby. Malcolm approves of the large boulders with the colorful trees in the back. Malcolm and John alternate their positions at her behest. After reviewing her preview screen, Ainsley appears dissatisfied.

“Give me your jackets, guys.” Ainsley lets the camera hang from the strap around her neck. She holds out her arms. “Chop chop, we’re wasting daylight.”

She makes them switch their waistcoats. John’s mostly black with a pop of red while Malcolm is crimson with a dark spot.

“There we go, that’s way more couple-y!” exclaims Ainsley. She’s further pleased when a red English bull terrier muscles in on their photoshoot. Ainsley snaps away while John dips forward to rub the bull terrier’s back and Malcolm scrunches on the paved walkway to dispense dog-earred scratching.

As Malcolm and John chat with the English bull terrier’s human, Ainsley points her camera at the surrounding park area to check her settings. Malcolm observes that Ainsley has her camera aimed at a curly-haired woman and a broad black guy leaning against the larger boulders featured in the wedding engagement photos. The two people ducked behind the rock formations are none other than detectives Dani and JT.

The detectives for Major Crimes are watching a petite Asian woman in a lustrous black dress that’s reminiscent of old Hollywood. Though she has exchanged her spectacles for cat-eye sunglasses, it’s Edrisa. She is skittishly posing for an average build white male photographer. The man's dishwater blond hair is gathered into a top knot. When he lowers his camera, a thin moustache curled at the ends becomes visible. His facial hair is very pale against his complexion, but the length of his sculpted whiskers extend outward.

“Lars Elmhardt! Excuse me, excuse me,” calls out JT. “NYPD, we’d like to talk to--”

Like any man who doesn’t want to answer questions, Lars swings his camera on its strap until it rests between his shoulder blades. Then he bolts for the tree line in the background of Malcolm’s wedding engagement photos, weaving around other visitors to Central Park, intending to ward off police in a wooded area.

Malcolm grabs the equipment bag that Ainsley uses for her camera and tosses it at Lars.

“Bro, what the heck?!” yells Ainsley.

“It’s for a case,” explains Malcolm. He jogs to Lars who is kicking off the equipment bag which tangled around his legs. Lars hops out of the devilish cross-body strap and makes a bid for the rocks. Malcolm doesn’t hesitate to scrape the toes of his shoes to keep up.

Lars finds himself on the edge of a steep drop that would break a bone or two. The dirt around the rocks is compacted and filled with sharp gravel and brambled weeds, not a good fall zone.

Malcolm knows that Lars studied fashion at a design school and frequently patrons theater plays. “Why did you put a beautiful thorn in the elms?” he asks. 

“Dunno how you mean, my guy,” says Lars. He looks down at JT who is posted below, the business end of a gun starkly black against the dying grass and rocks gray like headstones.

“Bella Thorne. A beautiful thorn. The tree where you leave a ‘bella thorn’ is how you sign your work. It’s in your name, Mr. Elmhardt. An elm's heart,” explains Malcolm.

“The gentlest blooms have the sharpest barbs,” says Lars. He takes a step back and his arms flap from loss of balance. He is a man who’s tipped over too many boundaries, plunging hard into his fantasies.

Malcolm grabs the camera, planting his soles and yanking with his entire weight. Lars groans aloud, a goose egg swelling his brow from where he was dashed into the rough, hard surface by momentum. Then Lars is screaming because he broke the vessel bearing his fantasies, each lovingly cataloged flower. Damaged parts clatter within the camera and Lars cries when it won’t respond in his scraped hands.

Dani cuffs the suspect’s hands in front of his body. Her fist is closed around the back of the man’s shirt and her fingers hook into his belt to bring him down to the ground. “You alright, Bright? Looks like you took a crack to the head yourself.”

“I’m fine. Hopefully, you’ll be able to pull a gallery of evidence from the memory stick,” says Malcolm, clutching his lower back.

Malcolm wobbles, but he’s able to clamber down. When his body locks up, he nearly takes another fall that would’ve sent him tumbling into the dirt, but for John. The world tilts before he is swept into an emergency room. 

He vaguely remembers assuring Edrisa that she can keep the silk dress which he bought to draw out the killer. While Edrisa was not in immediate danger, stepping in front of a creep’s camera is a daunting risk. 

John stays with him in the waiting area when Ainsley leaves to report on Major Crimes’ latest arrest.

Malcolm didn’t hit his head, but his back is killing him. As the muscle relaxant wears off, the deep cramps make him grab his cutlery so tightly that he shakes his dinner plate. It’s difficult for him to sit through dinner with his mother, sister, John, and Crystal. John is still wearing his nice suit from their photoshoot instead of an outfit that would’ve honored Elvis the king.

Jessica stares at Malcolm and John, not quite believing their explanations.

“You are having my grandchild,” says Jessica to Crystal. She tilts her head at John. “And you’ve agreed to adopt my grandchild as a Whitly?”

“Mother, we’re finally talking to a lawyer about the necessary protections. We thought that this would make you happy after months of bickering,” says Malcolm. 

Ainsley slides the paternity test back to Malcolm. She turns to Crystal. “Your baby’s grandfather murdered twenty three people.”

“We’re not a family that falls off of anyone’s radar,” says Jessica to Crystal. “Are you prepared to give up your rights to make decisions in the child’s best interests? If he or she is a Whitly through and through, they will one day be expected to step into the public eye.”

“My son is a juvenile case at Gardner Psychiatric because he stabbed his father at least one hundred times,” says Crystal. “He put his hand inside the sleeve of his hoodie and kept going. Not a scratch. I think the baby will fit in with your kind of people.”

“Insanity runs on both sides of the family. What news,” says Jessica. “I stabbed Malcolm’s father once. He survived because I aimed for his heart, and quite forgot that he wouldn’t have one.”

Crystal looks like she’s dying for a glass of wine for herself.

“It was for a case,” says Malcolm. “No charges went to court.”

Whatever Crystal intends to say is lost because the baby kicks. When Ainsley asks to touch the belly, Jessica asks Crystal about the doctor appointments.

“I see the OB/GYN almost every day because they consider me high risk,” says Crystal.

“My son must’ve been very exuberant. Women our age don’t get knocked up just like that,” quips Jessica.

“Mother!” protest Malcolm and Ainsley, horrified expressions perfectly mirrored.

“I found a cathedral in Plainview that would do up a wedding for us. They’re Catholic,” announces John.

“How? Priests would not be allowed to marry you. They’re Catholic,” replies Jessica.

“Non-Roman order. Malcolm and I will be busier on Sundays between Mass and pre-marriage counseling with Father Vinny. We don’t have too much time left to take the counseling before our big day,” explains John.

“Is this what you want, sweetheart?” asks Jessica. “You’ve been married to the job for years. It’s a lot to take on a husband and a family all at once. Your father and I didn’t wait to have you.”

“I’m sure,” says Malcolm emphatically. Even though his mother is right and it does feel like the weight on his shoulders will break his injured back, Malcolm continues to defend his relationship with John. “It feels like we’ve known each other for years.”

* * *

The wedding of Malcolm Bright and John Watkins is officiated at St. Francis in Plainview. Father Vinny, in holy vestments, administers divine sacraments which are important to John. Malcolm has seen the photos of John taking Communion.

John waits for him at the altar, dressed in his best blacks, minus the hat. Ainsley, in a rose-gold gown, walks before Malcolm in the bridal procession. Malcolm experiences something like vertigo as his mother Jessica and man-of-honor Gil escort him down the aisle. Malcolm is in a satin white suit with a baby blue shirt, golden necktie, and a lacey pocket square.

“Do you need a Valium, sweetheart?” mutters Jessica through the whites of her smile.

“No, Mother. Not necessary,” whispers Malcolm. He focuses on keeping himself in step with Gil’s larger stride.

“Time to face the music, kid,” says Gil, through the church organs playing. “Doing great.” He pats Malcolm’s back before standing beside Ainsley. Ainsley takes the bouquet of white roses which Malcolm nervously strangled during his entire walk.

Besides Malcolm’s cop fam, Crystal and Isaac Parker, and a couple of John’s guests, neither of the grooms know who the hell most of the people are that Jessica invited to join the wedding assembly. Malcolm recognizes more than a few faces of people who used to work for the Whitly family. To no one’s surprise, Jessica did expense their wedding for uncontested management of their guest list.

Father Vinny greets them and the wedding guests stand and sing “Gloria'' the hymn. More voices rise up than what Malcolm expected. Then the cathedral is filled with the rustling noises of everyone taking their seat.

Gil steps up to read the liturgy of the Word. His steadfast tone as he reads 1 Corinthians settles over Malcolm as tangibly as his hand over Malcolm’s nape, many a time.

“If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing,” reads Gil. The slightest angle of his brow, right at Malcolm, causes Malcolm to duck his face. It’s one thing to be called out in church by the man who influenced him during his father’s absence. But Gil isn’t seeking to humiliate him. 

Gil keeps reading his overarching message to Malcolm. “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.... Love never fails.” He beams at Malcolm with more pride than if Malcolm solved one thousand cases.

The entire congregation reads from the Psalms before Father Vinny does the homily, reflecting on the readings and marriage. Though Malcolm and John have practiced their vows, Malcolm’s feeling the stage fright as the priest leads them to the Rite of Marriage.

His throat sticks before he can even get his name out. Malcolm feels like he’s being tugged apart between Bright, the name that made for himself, and his family name.

“I, Malcolm Whitly, take you, John Watkins, for my lawful husband to have and to hold...” Malcolm can feel his mother, sister, and Gil watching him. The omission is deafening for those who’ve been with him since the beginning. Since his rebirth, “Bright” feels like another dress suit that he could peel off when he’s not working; another lie that doesn’t stick.

“...from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part,” vows John. Malcolm tunes in just in time to hear John speak his vow.

“You with me, me with you,” adds John. All he can see is John. Malcolm almost gets whiplash when he feels the first moment, at the junkyard, when John opened up and told Malcolm what he wanted their marriage to be.

Isaac carries the tray with their rings to Father Vinny who blesses them as symbols of love and fidelity. He and John exchange the rings on their left hands. John’s watery eyes meet his, over the sight of their entwined hands. John’s class ring glimmers on Malcolm’s right hand, usurped by the wedding band. 

The class ring will go into a locked safe. It’s too distinct to risk losing when Malcolm and John are hunting down sinners for mission work.

Their kiss ends the ring ceremony. Then comes the time for Nuptial Mass, an offering of bread and wine to the priest in holy communion. The church kneels during prayers of the Eucharist which consecrate earthly substance as the body and blood of Christ.

John, and then Malcolm, kneel together after a recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. 

Malcolm half-expects falling sword death. Intrusive thoughts push in and the hairs on his neck raise up as though he’s about to lose his head. He judges himself to be unworthy of the peaceful scene. He’s scared of what he’ll see when he looks up. 

The stained glass mural of a multicolored cross illuminates an arched window of the cathedral. Father Vinny gives them blessings. The murmurs of “Peace be with you” blanket them. Then many hands clasp together, a myriad of people, who otherwise would never have come together, if not for Malcolm and John’s union.

Those of the faith line up to take communion. John goes. He cannot resist the draw of rituals. Malcolm stays with John, arms crossed to indicate that he’s not Catholic and can’t accept the consecration. Other clergy in white robes smile at them, and it helps Malcolm feel less like he shouldn’t be there.

The priest formally dismisses the wedding party and guests with a final prayer, for the newlyweds, and their loved ones. Malcolm signs his name, as does John. Malcolm ends up writing in Bright, from muscle memory.

“What’sa matter?” asks his husband.

“I made a mistake,” says Malcolm.

“A bit late in the day, Malcolm,” says John, his tone sharpening.

“No, not like that. I mean, I signed it wrong,” says Malcolm, looking apologetic. He gestures at the dotted line.

“You go both ways. People will call you what they call you, just like they do to me. Stop overthinking it,” says John. He gathers Malcolm to himself and they embrace.

“Yes, dear.” Malcolm is content to just be John’s husband.

* * *

Malcolm presents his standard high society smile as befitting an heir. The congregation who leave the church gather off to the side to cheer for the newlyweds and the rest of the wedding party. Sunbeams briefly wash out the vivid blue sky as Malcolm tosses his bouquet of roses. 

Gil cracks up hysterically when Jessica’s arms whip defensively over her head to thwart the bouquet of doom. Dani hops up as though to catch a fly ball and unwittingly knocks the wind out of Edrisa. JT catches Edrisa by the belt around her dress, saving her from a tumble onto the pavement. Ainsley emerges victorious with the crumpled flowers. Then white and golden strips of paper flutter onto the celebration from a booming party canon painted with neon shapes.

A large white truck parked on the road is now built up into a mobile stage measuring 20’ x 16’ with its hydraulic roof deployed. White canvas flaps onstage, concealing much of the stage area. A gentleman in a black tux approaches Malcolm and John. “Congratulations, you two! Please approach the stage for a special show arranged by your family.”

Malcolm cooperates, but he is disoriented by the attention of many folks on him.

Jessica and Ainsley are prepared for what’s up. Even so, Ainsley cups her hand around her lips and cheers while swinging around the bouquet. Edrisa and JT’s wife Tally screech excitedly when the curtain drops. A pop synth beat kicks off before the front man for Maroon 5, in a tux and bowtie, does the thing. Farrar is on bass, Morton playing the keys, and Valentine rocking lead guitar, near the drum kit.

_“Sugar! Yes, please. Won't you come and put it down on me…”_

“Oh. My. Gah. Oh. My. Gah! I missed Adam when he left The Voice,” sobs Tally. JT grabs her and kisses her cheek and neck until they’re rocking side-to-side.

A swell of happiness surges through the people filtering out of the cathedral. Malcolm flashes back to his tough job as a field Agent when he heard that song as a backdrop to his Kingdom Lake investigation. John’s kiss brings him back home to the present, from cold tired nights stinking of algae and dank marsh gases.

 _“Don't let nobody touch it, unless that somebody's me! I gotta be your man. There ain't no other way...'Cause boy you're hotter than a southern California day,”_ sings the artist.

“Wait a minute. That’s not the lyrics,” says Malcolm. He is lightly buffeted by the wedding guests and pedestrian strangers swarming onto the road with their phones out.

“Chill, bro. I paid them to change pronouns. Maroon 5 is gay for this gig,” explains Ainsley.

Malcolm hugs Ainsley so hard that he lifts her off the asphalt. As much as he loves John, Ainsley is more fun to dance with because of how they naturally bounce off of one another. He and Ainsley are back-to-back, arms raised, and flipping hair.

Next is the dance-able tracks like “One More Night”, “Moves Like Jagger”, and “Animals.” Malcolm gets a turn with his cop friends and Edrisa and somehow gets in a little action mashed between JT and his hot tamale wife Tally. Malcolm catches himself getting twirled and realizes belatedly, while observing Gil, from whomst he took his suave dance cues.

Gil raises an arm, expecting to twirl Jessica, but he finds himself spinning instead, his mouth open before he gamely follows through. Jessica throws her head back, puckering her lips at Malcolm when they catch each other’s eyes. Playful happiness is a good look on her.

Malcolm gets so caught up that he loses track of his husband, a very worrying sign for a newlywed such as himself. The pop ensemble gentles to a plain guitar chord as Malcolm stands on tiptoe, looks over his shoulder, and cranes his neck searching for his groom. Malcolm catches more than a few smirks and conspiratorial smiles thrown his way. 

_“Beauty queen of only eighteen, he had some trouble with himself…”_ The artist serenades.

Ainsley shakes her head at Malcolm and grabs his shoulders before nudging him forward. To be apt, Ainsley pushes him to the stage. It occurs to him to turn the fuck around and check the stage. Many of the audience step aside for Malcolm. His heart drops when he finds John sitting on the edge of the stage, an axe in his lap. Not an axe for throwing. John plays his grandfather’s red electric guitar wired to an amp. John is not singing. He’s playing for Malcolm, like it’s just the two of them warming up a campfire.

_“I know where you hide, alone in your thoughts. Know all of the things that make you who you are. I know that goodbye means nothing at all…”_

John isn’t an exceedingly tall or fit man, but he looks quite husbandly in his tux. His bowtie is gone. His shirt collar is mussed and his jacket bunches awkwardly without the proper button in place. John’s forehead is too shiny and his face is scrunched before he positions himself away from the sun. The tail of his shirt rides up and soft rolls pooch over a black leather belt.

The second the song wraps, John places the guitar onto the stage and Malcolm dives onto the edge of the platform, lifting himself up by willpower, centered between John’s splayed knees. When Malcolm's arms give out, John catches him before he can fall. Malcolm stares into dark, bottomless wells. John kisses his little broken smile. And he will be loved, loved, loved. 

* * *

While rows and rows of people attended the wedding, the folks who RSVP’d yes to the private wedding reception is significantly limited. As Malcolm suspected, most of their guests at the ceremony were hirelings for the occasion.

Jessica hosts the wedding reception in her ancestral home. Banners congratulating the couple hang prominently in the dining room. Black and white silk leaves for the autumn wedding party are strung decoratively throughout the first floor of the mansion. A total of twelve adults, one child, and a baby sit at the long dining room table replete with tableware and sumptuous courses. Malcolm is between John and Ainsley. Beside Ainsley is Jessica. Then Gil, Dani, JT, JT’s wife Tally, and their newborn boy. Edrisa ends up next to John, but doesn’t know the tall gentleman who’s on the other side of her chair.

“Mr. David, so glad you came. Be sure to report how much fun we’re having without you-know-who,” says Jessica jovially to the man who had the thankless task of being a Claremont prison guard. She is cheerful from a packed table, beaming from children in her house.

An unexpected reception guest is a Roman Catholic priest who introduces himself as Father Leo, from the parish of San Matteo. He is John’s guest.

“I have to say, it’s nice to be invited as a guest,” says Father Leo. He’s in a suit that’s a bit tight on his rounded bulk. He wears a black tie instead of his priestly collar.

“Thanks for coming, Father. Wasn’t sure if you’d be comfortable with us,” says John. John explains to Malcolm that Father Leo heads a program for the homeless to receive food and necessities.

“Just ‘cuz I can’t give you the rites doesn’t mean I won’t pray blessings,” says Father Leo. He likes drinking and eating, in that order.

Crystal and Isaac join them later. Crystal moves carefully, looking sick from the car ride from Plainview to Manhattan.

“I’m so glad you ended up making it here. That’s one less empty chair,” says Jessica to Crystal. She makes Ainsley budge over for Crystal to sit next to her. Ainsley spills red wine on her maid-of-honor gown while negotiating the seating change. It’s red on rose-gold fabric.

“I could take up two chairs,” grumbles Crystal. She nibbles on bread and crackers and drinks sparkling grape juice in lieu of a robust red wine.

“My friend Eve didn’t show. She’s sick of the city and is undoubtedly on her way to the Carolinas,” drawls Jessica.

“What’s in the Carolinas?” asks Crystal.

“I believe she has family there. Can’t blame the girl for wanting to move back,” banters Jessica. Their conversation comes to a screeching halt when JT walks his fussy baby around the table. The baby is a tiny squallin’ bundle in JT’s ginormous arm. JT’s other hand lifts his camera for table selfies with his son’s red face. Baby Tarmel is dapper and distressed in a black tie onesie with the footies. Tally is grubbing away, recognizing her chance to enjoy a hot meal. Dani and Edrisa get out of their chairs to make faces with the upset baby.

The baby boy’s cries cause Crystal to lactate through her cardigan. Crystal ties the linen napkin around her neck like a bib and waddles to the bathroom. She waves off any assistance from Malcolm. Gil pulls out the empty chair for JT who hands his tiny son to Jessica. Ainsley is too buzzed to hold the baby, but she takes many photo bursts.

“Your wedding took an hour,” says Isaac darkly. He squints at his plastic spork. The beef steak is delicious, but his utensil is inefficient for nom noms. Everyone else, who does not have a criminal record, gets to dine with a real fork.

“I didn’t know that we would find a priest. You can take some cake home with you. As much as you want,” says Malcolm.

“Sorry, little man. I had to do it,” says John, ruffling Isaac’s medium length hair. “You did good holding our rings. I would’ve been in trouble if I dropped mines.”

John laughs at Isaac straightening his blond hair. “Tell you what. How about if me and Malcolm make it up to you. Do you like going on trips?”

“I went to Disney World. It was boring when I wasn’t on the rides,” says Isaac.

“Oh my God, that kid doesn’t have a soul,” Ainsley stage whispers to Malcolm when she overhears. Malcolm waves her off when Ainsley tipsily clutches at him in her stained dress.

“Have you ever gone fishing or hunting? It’s a lot more involved than standing around and waiting for the fun to start,” says John. 

“I haven’t. Mom worries about me. About everything, really,” says Isaac.

“You could go camping with us. We’d look after you. I have a Winnebago that I just might dig up,” says John. He shoots a look of sympathy at Isaac with his bent-up spork and hands him the steak knife.

“John, what--” begins Malcolm.

“The boy needs experiences to learn from. It would be after our honeymoon,” says John. His hand moves beneath the tablecloth. Malcolm goes quiet and stares at John from under his lashes. John smiles and considers the matter settled.

Mind racing with anticipation, Isaac Parker takes up the bloodied knife and he savors rare meat like it's the sliver of a dream.

* * *

For all that the Whitlys are a stylish family, certain traditions stuck. Malcolm and John were expected to spend their first night as newlyweds within a set of rooms that were second only to the Master suite of the Milton property. The design layout was intended for a setup where the head of the household would live in the Master suite and their designated heir would lodge in the second Master suite to learn from their parents or guardians and care for them in ailing health until the time of succession.

Their newlywed suite contained a bedroom, adjoining bathroom (with “his & his” sinks), and a reading room with its own door. Owing to Malcolm’s night terrors, the reading room was temporarily converted to another bedroom for John.

“We can leave in five hours,” says Malcolm. “It’s weird, right? This is weird to end up here with my mother’s chambers at the other end of the hallway.”

Especially with Ainsley passed out drunk in her old bedroom and Jessica due back from her errand of personally escorting home a very pregnant Crystal Parker and her son Isaac.

“Your father told me that the tradition was for the newlyweds to stay in the Master bedroom. That would be your mother’s bedroom, correct? Or am I missing something?” says John.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t know about that. Thank God we are not keeping to the full-blown tradition.” Malcolm shudders and waves his arms to dispel his thoughts. “Anyway, we can literally go to the loft in five hours, at sunrise.”

John grins at Malcolm. “You talk even more when you’re nervous. I’m not putting up with that until sunrise. Play some music and let’s have the champagne.” He tosses the cuff links into his overnight duffel and then he rolls up his sleeves, displaying the black sickle inked on his right arm. His tuxedo jacket hangs in one of the closets.

Malcolm ports his iPhone into the charging station with the speakers while John uncorks the champagne and pours two fizzy drinks in glasses without stems. Malcolm changes out his early morning playlist for a 90s station. He knows what John likes. The selection won’t always be what John likes, but tonight, Malcolm wants to please him.

A pop song comes on that Malcolm knows too well from co-ed school dances and other people’s weddings… and couples’ skate at Rockefeller.

_There's just no rhyme or reason_   
_Only the sense of completion_   
_And in your eyes_   
_I see the missing pieces I'm searching for_

“Holy moly, how did we get married without this song making an appearance?” exclaims John. He gulps half of his champagne and sticks his arm out to Malcolm.

Malcolm takes a sip, mostly just sucking down citric foam, before he hands the drink glass to John. John places the drink glass on the table and sticks his arm out to Malcolm again.

“C’mon, we can’t let those dance lessons go to waste,” says John.

“You didn’t have to have them. You and Ains were scheming a surprise dance party together for how long?” retorts Malcolm.

“You know how hard it is to surprise someone who reads people for a living,” says John deadpan.

Malcolm relents and gives his hand over. They’re not wholly in sync with one another, but John appears comfortable with holding him close and swaying to slow music.

“I went to see this band in August 1998. Summerfest in Hershey, PA. I begged my Gam Gam to lemme use her car,” recounts John. He swallows from the memory of his grandmother. “If I took her to the amusement park and a chocolate tour at Hershey World, we had a deal. Gam Gam didn’t have GPS in her car, so when we got lost in Reading, I ended up turning the car around in Exeter. I burned so much gas that I couldn’t buy the T-shirt after the show.”

“Why didn’t you use the station wagon, from your good friend?” asks Malcolm.

“You know why,” says John, without missing a beat. “Your dad took you and your family to Cape Cod and Boston. That was probably your last vacation, right?”

“I don’t remember,” whispers Malcolm.

“I remember plenty. Martin wouldn’t shut up about you kids. He took you and your sister to see the whales because you loved those _Free Willy_ movies,” says John. “Your dad told me the worst joke. Ever.”

“Okay, what was the joke?”

“Someone told me that whales could squirt ink, then I realized they were just… God damn it, Martin. They were just 'squidding,'” says John, finishing the one-liner with an anguished growl.

Malcolm’s shoulders shake so much that John pulls back and pats his head when Malcolm swipes his red face with his hand.

“I heard worse. Tell me. What do whales need to stay healthy?” says Malcolm.

“Oh no. It’s a doctor dad joke,” says John, with a groan.

“They need vitamin Sea,” finishes Malcolm. He sniffles and sits on the foot of the bed sprinkled with white and gold-dipped rose petals. “I need to tell you one more.”

“If you gotta, but then I’m cutting you off,” says John gamely. He joins Malcolm on the mattress, which is springy and firm.

“How did the octopus make the whale laugh?”

“Hold on. I did not drink enough to hear this.” John grabs the champagne glasses. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

“With ten… tickles!” squeaks Malcolm before he’s laugh crying. “Oh my God, some of it’s coming back to me. I remember the lighthouses and an old windmill and pirate’s treasure.”

“A toast?” suggests John.

“Yes, please. To… a whale of a tale,” says Malcolm before he loses it. “Oh… my… Cod.” As in, Cape Cod.

John tackles Malcolm, in self-defense before Malcolm can tell one more joke. Their drink glasses thunk on the patterned rug. Malcolm wrestles with him, yelling and squawking as John’s fingers dance along his tummy and along his sides.

“Ah! No, no!” giggles Malcolm. He can’t catch his breath long enough to lodge a proper protest of spousal abuse.

With Malcolm squirming under him, John keeps up his methods of torture, focusing on Malcolm’s tummy and beneath his underarms. His body slides upward, his weight pinning Malcolm to the rose petals. He blows one strong puff of air into Malcolm’s ear, inciting more giggles. Malcolm’s trouser leg kicks out. They’re both still wearing their dress shoes on the bed.

John once more blows into Malcolm’s ear as he administers “ten-tickles.” This bonus round of teasing hits differently for Malcolm. John’s breath is softer, from how much he’s laughing.

Malcolm clamps his lips tightly and sneakily rolls his hips, grinding himself into John’s leg. A gentle breath skating over Malcolm’s hot skin ends in John’s teeth sinking into his neck. Malcolm bucks harder, moaning from frustration when John holds down his arms and sits on Malcolm’s spread legs.

“No, you will not bring yourself off. Not without me inside you. Not until we’re one in flesh,” says John, panting in-between their heavy kisses. Malcolm tastes sweat and champagne.

“If you want a good lube job, you must be a very good boy. If you touch yourself, if you try to strip, I will use you and go to sleep. Capische??” John’s threat hangs over Malcolm’s head.

John loves his rituals, not unlike the traditionalist Miltons who came before Malcolm. Regardless of what Malcolm likes and what he prefers, John has a prescribed scheme of what must happen for their first coupling in wedlock. Later on, Malcolm can ask for what he desires, but for this holy night, he belongs to John, as his bride.

Malcolm tenses when John reaches for the lamp on the dresser. John merely dims the light instead of switching it off completely. In spite of John’s religious upbringing, the practicalities of being able to see and to navigate lovemaking win out over any ingrained sense of shame.

“You may stand beside the bed, Malcolm. Your family did it up beautifully, but this won’t work,” says John. He rolls down the thick coverlet to the bottom of the bed until only the sheets are in place. Then he untucks the top sheet and pulls it down to where the coverlet rests. Malcolm smiles from John’s fastidious ways, the gears in his head turning.

“Bed’s so damned soft,” says John. He puts his arms around Malcolm’s waist and goes in for another kiss. Though he’s affectionate, it’s quick, almost chaste.

“Johnnie,” says Malcolm, while John negotiates the buttons of Malcolm’s waistcoat. Soon, Malcolm’s dress shirt hangs open, golden tie fallen onto the patterned rug.

“Yes, dear?”

“I love you, Johnnie. I’ve killed for you,” says Malcolm. He doesn’t care for rituals and traditions because honestly, they’re impinging on his special night. Malcolm yearns for passion and restraint. John’s motions of undressing him feel impersonal, after being stuck together by blood and come.

“What do you want, Mal?” says John. He finally meets eyes with Malcolm. 

Malcolm’s shirt and then Malcolm’s belt and dress pants drop down. Malcolm kicks off his pants and gets out of his dress shoes. His low riding socks roll off his feet from how he steps, a technique that he’s perfected from fast and loose nights. 

He goes to John clad solely in his snow white lily embroidered velvet and stretch-tulle lingerie. The fuzzy patch on his stomach shows through the meshwork, a dark path down to his trimmed pube hairs.

“Sweet _Jesus_ ,” utters John. John gets down on both knees and kisses the matching lace garter with a small blue bow and Swarovski crystal.

“Do you like? It’s from Fleur du Mal.” Malcolm had to have it when he saw it. It wasn’t a thong, nor were they old lady briefs. The modest but shapely cut would sit wonderfully on the angular planes of his male body. He knew John would love the color, the purity of the white flowers. It feels so good on his skin, even with his hard cock straining the fabric.

John palms his ass, relishing in the hot squeeze. Malcolm’s nerve endings fire off, knees weak from John’s beard roughing his bare legs. John kisses each blooming white lily, loving each one with his mouth. The lingerie catches on John’s wedding band when his fingers dig beneath the bottom openings. He tenses his fingers, stretching the lingerie and bringing his hands down to strip off the velvet-tulle.

Malcolm gets to keep his garter on when John lifts him from the floor and carries him bridal style to their bed. Nude and in John’s arms, Malcolm enjoys how John’s wedding clothes rub against him. Malcolm feels each footfall that takes them closer to bed. The silk sheets whisper amazingly naughty sensations along Malcolm’s naked back and his buttocks. Just moving his arms along the silk fabric feels like the sheets are molesting him.

“Can you put a pillow under my hips, Johnnie? It’ll make it deeper for me,” sighs Malcolm. 

“Yes, dear.” John raises Malcolm’s bent leg and lightly nips his calf, startling Malcolm into a breathy moan.

Though John has acclimated to wearing suits for special occasions only and normal days never, he’s considerably less patient with disrobing finery. John definitely lives in coveralls. He tears his clothes apart when they don’t fall off fast enough. John stalks toward the bed with his trousers in hand, wearing an old music band T-shirt. The large cross tattooed on his left bicep peeks out beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. He drops his trousers after fishing out a few small foil squares.

Malcolm is momentarily confused because condoms? Condoms are not for Catholics, the only upside of John’s religion.

Then John clambers into bed and rips open the foil packets. Lube shines on his fingers as he strokes himself to the sight of Malcolm spreading for him and arched over the pillow. John grips the mound of Malcolm’s ass, pulling it taut before he fingers the tight, rosy pucker. His touch radiates heat where it is most welcome, the lube warmed from John’s pocket.

Malcolm touches himself, but it’s not to jerk off. John told him not to. Instead, Malcolm skims his fingertips from one nipple to the other, feels his nipples pebbling. His hand wanders down his thigh, stretching the white garter. Malcolm wants so badly for John to peel off the black T-shirt. He’s seen John without a shirt.

The rare sight of John’s cock thrills him more so than the first time. John’s legs are a bit longer than his own and the muscles curve from years of working labor jobs or pursuing his outdoor habits. The hairs nestled at the base of his cock need to be trimmed back. Fine white hairs stick to John’s balls because they’re too long. Malcolm can think of a few incentives that he can offer John in exchange for intimate grooming.

John’s fingers are rough, but slow as he opens Malcolm. He’s watched Malcolm enough times to trigger the desired response. John tries squeezing Malcolm’s cock while turning two fingers, feels Malcolm clenching for him. John compares the width of his dominant hand to the thickness of his own cock and ends up screwing Malcolm with all of his slick fingers. Guided by their connection, John gauges the moment when Malcolm’s ready for more. Malcolm’s cock moves on its own and John is watchful, deliberately repeating motions to catalog each twitch, shudder, and outcry. 

Malcolm’s legs are raised so high that Malcolm folds like origami. John’s fist presses Malcolm’s ass, taking himself in hand as he enters. He’s not seeking permission. Pleasure isn’t what he’s after. He craves affirmation that he is wanted, which is given by his chosen partner--who can see him and recognize the darkness which begets all things.

“My dear husband,” begs Malcolm. He grabs onto John’s black T-shirt. “God, just take me!”

John rushes into Malcolm then, like a river through an endless night. He covers Malcolm and gives him flesh. Pounds his cock harder with each drive, thrust after thrust, spurred on by Malcolm pulsing around him. Malcolm’s heart beats frantically and hectic like a broke winged bird, which reminds John.

John grabs the back of his shirt, dampened by sweat, and pulls it over his head. Though stiffened by product, John’s hair shifts. 

“Johnnie!” cries Malcolm with a gasp. He puts his hand on John’s left side and gazes at the yellow-green parakeet perched over John’s heart. The pretty bird’s claws grip the scythe. The aroma of cocoa butter over fresh ink mingles with their sweat and passion and heat.

“Touch it,” says John. “I did this for you, little Malcolm.”

Malcolm’s hand partially cups the image of his bird, warm and lifelike to his senses. Its pulse comes from John’s heartbeat which also throbs carnally inside of Malcolm. Malcolm’s heart soars before he plunges into climax. His come arcs like a rainbow and paints John’s scar, from John’s rebirth. John falls with him, releasing a flood of pleasure. Malcolm is smeared with come, soaking in the growls and wild noises from John which thrums under his skin and deeper into his being. John puts his mark in Malcolm, joined all the way to the hilt, claiming Malcolm beyond physical measure.

John strokes his hip and tucks slick fingers beneath the bridal garter, stretching it like how his cock gapes Malcolm’s cream filled hole.

“I love you, Mr. Whitly,” says Malcolm.

“Love you, too,” agrees John. His lips press onto Malcolm’s dewy forehead, and his rough voice croons into the worry line etched on Malcolm’s brow. “Mr. Whitly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter left in this bitch. I mean it this time, darn it. 
> 
> Party on the trash canoe that is this ship!!! (Martin's not invited, woo!)


	9. Heart-Shaped Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more warnings mo' probs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to you guys that no Whitly gets murdered, ok? No matter how scary events unfold, no major character death in the family.

Malcolm’s barefoot heel sinks onto the jagged riverbed stones. His flesh is tinged gray which is almost metallic looking, with a flat sheen not unlike hooked fish. His body feels so cold, stiff, and heavy that, except for his upright position, he thinks he’s dead.

Leafy yellow plant stalks float along the current, coming from an unknown source. So many yellow plants drift his way that they bunch up thickly around his waist. It’s straw. 

Malcolm can’t see what feeds the waters. Though he is marooned beneath a sunless sky, Malcolm sees another, a pale woman in a rose-gold dress stained with red. She is brave and fair but she cannot escape the river tide or the tangled straw binding her arms. He doesn’t hear anything but the water, but knows she must be screaming.

Only when the woman is completely submerged within the depths does Malcolm overcome his paralysis. His joints snap like dried rubber bands, slicing his withered muscles, and whipping his bones. When he reaches the place where he sees her shadow, Malcolm’s hands plunge through the straw, the murky bubbling surface. The straw slashes his hands bloody. He’s pulling straw, enough to hang himself with, and then too much for it to be real. 

Malcolm will never find her.

* * *

Malcolm is so thirsty after he cries by himself, weeping so brokenly that he doesn’t bother spitting out his mouth guard. The lights are off and he can’t hear the noises of the household staff, which means he’s awake in the deep of night. He doesn’t have it in him to scream. For the interminable minutes, Malcolm’s emotional episode subsides while he lies on his back, arms extended from his sleep restraints. 

He is cocooned in silk, the heat of his body insulated by the heavier coverlet on top of the silk sheet. The feel of silk enfolding him makes him half-hard, kicks off a different kind of aching, one that’s more pleasurable. He feels warm and well used from his wedding night, and could go for another round with John topping him.

Malcolm isn’t particularly heartbroken to wake up alone without his husband sleeping next to him. He assumes John went to bed in the other bed provided for him in the newlywed suite of the Milton mansion. Malcolm undoes the fasteners which secure his leather cuffs to the thick leather cords anchored to the bed frame. He needs relief. 

Malcolm rolls onto his stomach and hoists himself into a low crouch, legs curled to take his weight. He’s so sensitive that he can feel the rose petals slipping around his skin. He bunches the top sheet in his left hand, around his cock, making snug pussy folds for himself to fuck into. He bucks his hips, luxuriating in how easily he can take four fingers in his ass, moaning with his open mouth muffled by more silk. He’s boneless within minutes, from the memory of John’s cock thick in his ass. Hot release makes him kick off the sheets and he basks mindlessly from the afterglow which dulls his suffering, the air on his naked skin, and the sexual musk from John’s come still leaking onto his leg.

He’s still thirsty. Malcolm fumbles for the lamp on the nightstand. The knob for the lamp clicks a few times, but the room remains dark.

Malcolm feels his way around. He pulls on a white satin robe which stops just above his knee. The back of the white satin is embroidered with “His.” John’s long robe, made of black Supima cotton, is still on its hanger. Malcolm gets no response when he knocks on the door to the extra sleeping area in their newlywed suite. John’s bed is untouched. Malcolm would try his phone, but the iPhone is not in its charging dock which is dead like the lamp.

The switch to the adjoining bathroom light doesn’t work. The motion activated night light is a dark bulb in the bathroom’s wall outlet. Malcolm uses the toilet and washes his hands. The only water in his room is the melted ice from chilling the champagne.

Malcolm goes out into the hall. His mother’s bedroom doors are unlocked.

“Mother? We’ve had a power outage,” says Malcolm. “Mother?” He feels his way to her California king sized mattress. Her bed is cool and smooth to the touch. His stomach churns, groping in the blackness, the memory foam conferring no comfort to his clammy body. 

“... Mommy?” He’s scared of not finding her, but more terrified that he will find her cold. By dint of touch, Malcolm discovers that his mother’s bed is empty, but also unmade. He can hear the ticking of her analog wall clock, but without light, it sounds like a metronome which keeps time, keeps secrets. Without his phone, he can’t confirm if his mother ever made it home from the Parker residence.

With mounting dread, Malcolm stumbles down the hallway corridor. He knocks into decorative tables, sets the framed paintings swinging on the wall, and upsets more than one vase. He counts doors until he gets to Ainsley’s. Her door is locked.

“Ains! Ains! Open up! Please, Ains, for God’s sake!!” cries Malcolm, banging away. His robe falls open, his bare chest sticking to the door which doesn’t budge. He backs up and then flings his shoulder into the door. The first couple of times, it hurts. A mounted photo or painting crashes to the floor from Malcolm’s disturbances. Then the old training takes over until the splintered door slams into the interior wall of Ainsley’s bedroom.

Her messy bed is empty. Her closet, too. Her room doesn’t have an attached toilet.

Malcolm pants with his face in his hands. Then he rises to his feet, fixes his satin robe, and takes the first step in the longest walk of his life. The band of John’s class ring skims the wall as he moves to the basement, where he suspects that his husband awaits.

Warm-toned incandescence creeps from the broken wall onto the chilly basement floor, like an entrance to hell, or more aptly, his father’s workshop. Before Malcolm steps through, he is shoved into the cold stonework. A lace cloth covers his nose and mouth, followed by the sweetness of chloroform. It makes him lightheaded enough to droop into his assailant’s arms. He remains conscious though his head lulls. His feet stumble as he is dragged from the warm light and into the foundations of the ancestral house.

John handles him gently, cradling his neck and wrapping his arm around Malcolm’s waist. His knees scrape the cement floor, but in a cold press, not a hard jolt that jars his kneecaps. John’s fingers splay tenderly over his cheek, cushioning his skull as he is lowered to the floor.

“Johnnie?” Malcolm’s eyes roll in his head, but he is too weak to get a good look at John’s face, to read his intent.

“Shhhh. Save your strength, dear,” says John. He unbuckles the leather cuffs and rubs at the wide red pressure marks on Malcolm’s skin. Steel bracelets clink around his wrists. John tugs at the satin sleeves of his robe to soften the bite of steel. Malcolm’s face crumples and his chest heaves as his head clears from the sickly sweet fumes and panic sets in.

John kisses the nape of his neck and whispers into his ear. “You’re alright. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to take care of you. Stay with me. Stay. With. Me.” John sticks his nose into the satin collar of his robe and breathes him in. A slight hum of pleasure from John’s mouth makes the hair raise on Malcolm’s neck.

Malcolm recovers a fractured semblance of calm. He’s no longer exhaling so much that the enclosed space tilts to the end of the world. He can register the visuals of his surroundings where John has taken him.

The steel cuffs are chaining him to stainless anchors drilled into the cement. The light source is from a floodlight mounted on a many-legged stand. The room is like a prison cell block; the only furnishing is a metal folding chair. Unless Malcolm is hallucinating again, he’s looking at a black metal lined wood steamer trunk, lid closed. Lined up in a row are three 5 gallon jugs full of water, the kind which plug into office water coolers. 

John wears belted black denim, his faded music band T-shirt, and work boots. He takes a seat on the folding chair. His hands fiddle with the leather cuffs which he took from Malcolm. He buckles the leather cuffs around his own wrists, fingering the leather warmed by Malcolm.

“Malcolm Whitly, I swore on Christian blood that I would answer the life that you took with righteous vengeance.”

“No, Johnnie. No. Please don’t do this,” pleads Malcolm, his voice breaking. The champagne that he drank was hours ago and he hadn’t had more than half a glass of water at their wedding reception. At the time, he hadn’t wanted to drink water after eating red velvet wedding cake.

“What did I say that I would do, little dear?” says John, over Malcolm’s broken pleading.

“You would kill someone. She would know that it’s because of me and what I did,” answers Malcolm.

“Are you sorry for what you did?” questions John.

“I’m not!” declares Malcolm. “Because I did it for you. She would never permit you your freedom, dear.”

“Don’t you dare burden me. I didn’t tell you to murder my own flesh and blood. I didn’t put the knife in your hand,” denies John. “What’s more, you led me to sexual sin under a godly roof. Do you admit to your crimes?”

“I do,” says Malcolm coldly, a perverse repeat of their spoken vows just hours ago. The moment that he’s been dreading has come for him at last. He sits on the hard truth of what it means to belong to his husband.

“Don’t-- don’t do that.” John springs to his feet and paces in a furious circle.

“Would you rather I shut up then?” retorts Malcolm in an even tone.

“Stop talking like that! As if you hate me,” spits John, running his hands through his hair. “I couldn’t live with it if you hate me.”

“I love you, Johnnie,” says Malcolm, dutifully.

“No, no,” moans John. He crouches before Malcolm, rubbing his chin hairs, and then smacking himself in the head multiple times. “I can’t feel it when you said it. Have mercy on me, Malcolm.” 

“Take off my chains then. Come to bed with me, Johnnie.”

“But I love you in these chains.”

“I can wear them in bed, too,” says Malcolm. He plays up his submissive pose, presenting a fantasy of silk and steel; satin and flesh.

“You’re not getting out of them, Malcolm. You’re not getting out of this either,” insists John.

“K.” Malcolm lapses into his detached mannerisms.

“You know why I have to go through with this. You and I are one. The blood on your hands is on me, too. You killed an elderly woman who wasn’t marked for death. Only by going through our Trial can we be cleansed. Don’t you see, Malcolm? This is for us.” John seals his impassioned plea with his lips.

Although Malcolm complies, John is dissatisfied. He ends their kiss more frustrated than when he began.

“Malcolm! How can you be this cold?”

“I compartmentalize well,” explains Malcolm. “Tomorrow, I’m prepared to display the appropriate responses to the tragic disappearance of my entire family. I will demonstrate the stages of grief, which I expect to genuinely suffer. Perhaps we can drum up a botched ransom. We would present ourselves as victims to a crime of opportunity, wherein the motive is greed, plain and simple and believable. You’re the father of my child due to be born, which means turning you in would be impossible.”

“I will love you regardless of how you treat me. And I will put that feeling into a secret place, lock it away, where you can’t get at it. I will protect that love from the monster who fucked me and then murdered my family.”

Malcolm’s shoulder and his back ache from busting open Ainsley’s empty bedroom. Yet he manages a polished society smile.

“Now you’ve done it. Now you’ve fricken done it!” shouts John.

John kicks over the folding chair before he pitches it to the concrete wall. One of the legs bend, warping the metal frame drastically so that it doesn’t fold up after clanging the floor. His handgun is tucked in the back of his jeans. John hauls the steamer trunk closer but well out of the range for Malcolm to take action. The porous floor scrapes the bottom of the trunk and it echoes within the dank, airless cell block.

To Malcolm’s horror, a thumping litany issues from within the steamer trunk. When John undoes the exterior brass latches, he flips open the lid, and a woman’s scream pierces Malcolm’s heart.

John grabs long, blond hair. A slim young woman partially arises into view, in a rose gold dress stained by red wine. Ainsley wears her maid of honor wedding clothes. Her hair is in her face and John stands between her and Malcolm before he drops her like a stone. He doesn’t doubt that it’s his own sister in John’s clutches.

Malcolm’s never heard Ainsley scream like that. It’s different than when he surprises her on the street when she’s working or when they’re on a rollercoaster so that Malcolm can remember fun. She didn't scream like that even when her camera man was drowning in blood within Dr. Whitly's prison cell.

His cool evaporates like it’s never been. He can’t cry for himself, but the tears spring anew for his sister’s fate.

“Ainsley! Ains!” shouts Malcolm over and over. His palms sting as he strikes the cement floor. Blood drips on the back of his hand from where the cuffs lacerate him.

John upends two of the water jugs into the steamer trunk. As the water drains out, John places both arms inside the trunk, on the side where her head would be. One of the jugs fall out, kicked aside from Ainsley’s struggles. Water glugs onto the cement. John empties the third water jug and then battens down the lid over frantic splashing. The lid clatters violently, shaking the latches which articulate on their rivets, allowing fingers to claw out from a sliver of an opening. Her fingers scratch ashen lines into the darkly pigmented retardant of the trunk’s exterior.

Screaming fills the cell. When Malcolm goes back into his body, he tastes blood, his raw throat salted by his tears, choking on a vicious sting. He can’t feel his hands anymore, from beating out any remaining sensation left to him.

As horrifying as the noises are, coming from inside the steamer trunk, it’s infinitely worse when they cease altogether. It’s too quiet. Malcolm is quiet as John cuddles up to him. Though John acquired large damp stains, he offers a dry shoulder for Malcolm to sob into.

“Endure it, Malcolm. Feel what I feel. Do you repent for killing an innocent woman who wasn’t marked for death?”

“I didn’t know,” whispers Malcolm. “I saw her as your abuser. Poor Johnnie. I believed that I was doing more good than not. I didn’t understand the hurt I inflicted on you.”

“And now that you do?” John cups his face, tipping his head back, eyes desperately raking over Malcolm. Malcolm’s lashes flutter from John’s breath. John kisses the shining wet tracks on his cheeks.

“I _am_ sorry. I never meant to break your heart, Johnnie. I love you.” He means it because there’s a chance that his mother is alive, at least.

“My dear little husband. Praise the Lord. I see that you are well and truly humbled. Your Trial is over. I declare your heart as purified.”

Malcolm nods before he places the muzzle of John’s gun to his temple. His thumb depresses the safety mechanism.

“Malcolm!” John reaches for Malcolm’s hand, but then he thinks better of his unconscious action when Malcolm’s little finger curls inside the trigger guard. John hisses through his teeth as though Malcolm had jammed the gun into John's own head.

“Ah, it is loaded, then,” says Malcolm. The curve of his nail presses the trigger guard.

“Malcolm, don’t. You’ll regret it, after. Salvation is not for suicides,” says John. “I don’t want you in Hell.”

“Could’ve fooled me, Johnnie. Fool me twice, shame on me,” says Malcolm. He clears his throat and pushes aside his thirst.

“Think of our child, dear. The little one needs us both.”

“Is my mother alive?”

“Yes, she is. I swear to God.” If it were anyone but John, Malcolm would assume otherwise. John anxiously speaks to him. “You put my gun down, everything will fall into place. Trust me, dear. Believe in our love.”

“Blow me,” says Malcolm. Malcolm pulls at the bow tying his satin robe. He shifts his finger to rest it parallel to the trigger, but maintains a sure grip on John’s handgun. The satin swishes down his shoulder, falling away to reveal his partial erection. Malcolm flicks on the safety and points the barrel at his mouth.

“What? You serious?”

“Like this, dear,” continues Malcolm before he opens wide. The front sight scrapes behind his top teeth. The gun oil is bland, its greasiness leeching away his taste for life. He understands that the pathways for terror and arousal overlap.

“Jesus, Malcolm. Only you.” John tucks his feet under and shifts his weight onto his palms.

John wraps his lips around the tip of Malcolm’s cock. He doesn’t have the experience to tuck in his teeth or to tease Malcolm to death. John doesn’t go further than an inch. The soft wet of John’s mouth still feels better than it should. Malcolm’s teeth bite down on the short barrel. His groan makes the gun vibrate in his hand. Malcolm firms up when John haltingly licks a short stripe. He can’t remember the last time that anyone pleasured him. He can’t remember much of anything when John pulls away.

“Put it down, dear.” John’s lips move against his sensitive flesh. “Heck, aim it at me. It works out the same.”

John kisses his thighs, the head of his cock, and just below his belly button. But Malcolm keeps the gun cocked.

“If you blow your head off, I promise that you will have good company in hell. I’ll look up your cop buddies on the guest list. Your boss drives a Dodge Coronet with the stripes, yeah? Look at me, Malcolm,” orders John. “Your mother, I’ll get to. Eventually. Let her figure out that everyone who sat at her table is dying off. See how cursed your family is.”

Malcolm’s not expecting John’s final threat. “And I’ll save that sister of yours for last. She can cover the news of her mother’s mashed corpse.”

Malcolm draws the gun from his mouth. “Alive?” 

“Nothing gets past you, dear. I can’t very well kill her again.” John takes hold of his arm and lowers it to the floor. The chains clink with Malcolm’s tremor. John slides the gun away from them. The gun’s grip spins into the water trickling from the steamer trunk.

“Show me,” rasps Malcolm.

“I think you need to drink some water,” says John. But Malcolm shrinks away from the water jug which sloshes in John’s hands. Malcolm raises his cuffed hand before John obliges him with the key.

Malcolm claws at the latches. John opens up the trunk. The top of her golden head bobs into view, hairs wiry from the water. John grunts, hefting the added weight of the corpse’s sodden form. The water is warmer than he expects, but Malcolm blood runs cold as it drips down his legs and pools under his soles. Malcolm helps John lay the body flat out.

“Why her?” Malcolm doesn’t understand how he could have ever confused her for his sister. He had seen her wavy hair and her thin lips and his mind filled in the rest. Fear thoroughly clouded his vision. 

“You’re shivering, dear. C’mon, let’s get outta here. I’ve got my hoodie around.” John leads him out of the bare cell with a pocket flashlight and into the basement. Malcolm weakly leans on to the stonework while John switches on the power for the whole house. They step into the workshop. John’s hoodie is on the old desk. John helps him into the hoodie and rubs his back to warm him up.

“Better?”

“Yes, dear,” Malcolm whispers. He perches on the desk to get his feet off of the cold, hard floor.

“Why her?” Malcolm repeats his question.

“Skinny blonde. Stopped meeting your mother. Quit her job. Hired movers. No one will miss her in-between,” answers John.

Malcolm recollects the time when he and John gave her a ride to her apartment. He swallows and clears his parched throat. “You blended in with the moving company.”

“Easy peasy lemon-squeezy,” says John. “Her new place is set-up real nice. Boxes unpacked. Furniture where it needs to be. Photos out. Anyone looking for her won’t notice anything outta place.”

“In North Carolina?”

“She did not move that far,” says John. “Couple hours’ drive to Connecticut.”

“Why her, Johnnie?”

“I did it for you, Malcolm. I couldn’t forgive you ‘til you were sorry for what you did. I risked everything, including your love. To keep my vows. My word’s no good without follow through.”

“You will never come after our family again,” says Malcolm.

“Not our family,” agrees John, after a long beat. He gives Malcolm his word. Then his kiss.

Malcolm gets his legs around John and he rubs at John’s denim jeans. Malcolm’s ankles hook around John’s lower back. John stiffens, bodily and inside his pants. Malcolm unzips the hoodie and sticks his hands up John’s T-shirt. The pads of his fingers run along the sparse hairs on John’s chest.

John grips his arms and then brings each of Malcolm’s hands to his lips. He kisses at the lacerations which his cuffs dug into Malcolm’s skin. Malcolm likewise kisses the leather cuffs buckled around John’s wrists. John shoves him onto the desk. The hoodie and the robe flap on either side of Malcolm.

“Take me, Johnnie. Right here.” Malcolm’s hair fans out on the wooden surface. He watches John unbuckle and pull his jeans down.

“Christening your dad’s desk,” says John, his eyes gleaming. His finger plays along the furl of Malcolm’s ass. His hand covers Malcolm’s lips when his cock pushes in, muffling Malcolm’s scream.

John fucks Malcolm without any gentleness or mercy. At first, Malcolm is lost in the pain of John splitting him apart. He forgets to breathe, tightening up and resisting John’s cock. He mindlessly shoves at John, to make him stop. John’s face screws up in pleasure, his bottom teeth bared as his mouth falls open. Malcolm whimpers, useless words plugging his throat, when John tears him and makes him bleed. The smell of blood rises thickly between them. John feasts his eyes on Malcolm’s fear and shock. John’s hips slow as blood gathers on the base of his cock. 

Pain twinges inside Malcolm, but he’s loose, slick with fresh blood. The burning gives way to a feverish yearning for the intensity which John gives him. John grabs him underneath his arms, clamps his shoulders in a vice grip, pushes Malcolm onto his cock. His thrusts become more shallow, grinding vigorously, falling onto Malcolm in a sweaty heap. John rumbles before his lips find Malcolm’s neck.

Malcolm gasps when John pulls out with a grunt. He feels either his blood or John’s come, maybe both, flowing down the crevice of his ass and spilling on his dad’s desk. John ducks out of sight and Malcolm comes with a wail when John cups his balls, moving them aside to lick his fucked out hole. Malcolm never imagined that John would enjoy him this way. Each smack of John’s mouth and swirl of his tongue drives Malcolm insane. John smirks at him and wipes his filthy beard. Malcolm rears up for a kiss that tastes of both him and John.

Afterwards, he's bent over the desk while he waits for John to fetch him a drink. John pours water from a nearly empty 5-gal jug of water. The water trickles onto the floor of the workshop and Malcolm catches some of it as though he were drinking from a fountain. It flows into his mouth deliciously, like a river.

* * *

Ainsley almost chokes on her orange juice when she observes Malcolm delicately taking his seat for breakfast.

“I see you went to bed early, bro,” she says. Ainsley rubs the back of her neck and then massages her temples.

“Where did you get to last night?” asks Malcolm.

“Slept in the tub, apparently. I sort of remember getting into the shower in my PJs. Katja woke me up when she found me burrito wrapped in the curtain which I pulled off the rings.”

Malcolm nearly sprays his coffee, his eyes bright as he gazes at his ridiculous sibling. 

“Guessing your hubby wubby had a better night than you did,” says Ainsley.

“He’s sleeping it off,” says Malcolm. He leaves it at that.

“Well, as long as he’s making you happy,” says Ainsley, wriggling her brows.

“You’ve warmed up to him,” observes Malcolm.

“I had a chat with that drunk priest. He let it slip that your hubby wubby donated a shitload of money to church.” She grins at Malcolm’s surprised expression. “How could you not know? He gave away tens of thousands.” Ainsley wrinkles her nose at Malcolm. “Think you married a saint, bro. Maybe don’t let him dress himself.”

Malcolm had assumed that John had squirrelled away the insurance money from his grandmother’s destroyed house, but if he thought that the money was cursed, John wouldn’t keep it.

Jessica joins them at the table, with Gil tagging along for coffee. 

“I’m not hungry,” says Jessica, waving off her breakfast plate. “Gil and I met up earlier for food.”

She’s wearing the same dress from the reception, although she threw on a blazer to downplay the fact that she did not come home the night before.

“How’d you sleep, Bright?” asks Gil.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I had a weird dream?” quips Malcolm. A light grimace crosses his face. "I may have broken Ainsley's door while sleepwalking."

"That's totally psycho, Malcolm. You better fix it!" exclaims Ainsley.

"A little property damage, is that all?" says Jessica. "Make your husband do it."

* * *

Gil pulls him into the work office. Malcolm scans the woman seated inside. She’s wearing a blouse printed with tiny whales, beige canvas jacket, and a blue corduroy skirt with large buttons. Her sandy gray hair is plaited into a French braid. Her earrings are chunky gold but of a conservative size.

Malcolm stares, attempting to place her face which strikes him as familiar.

“Bright, this is Dr. Sarah,” introduces Gil. 

“Mr. Arroyo tells me that you know Eve Blanchard,” says Dr. Sarah with a sad smile. The lines under her eyes become more noticeable when she’s not smiling.

“How is she? I hope she’s still doing charity work for human trafficking. I mean, against it. Not in support of it,” says Malcolm.

“It’s understood, Bright. Have you heard from her? Your mother told me that Ms. Blanchard RSVP’d ‘no’ to your wedding and she hasn’t been in touch since,” informs Gil.

“I was kind of waiting on Eve to get back to me about a legal matter. Maybe she would’ve told you about her situation,” says Malcolm. “I’m afraid I can’t specify what since I’m not sure how you’re connected.”

“We’re neighbors,” answers Dr. Sarah. “We became very close in a short period of time. She told me that she was looking for her family. Then she dropped off the grid.”

“Eve has family in the Carolinas. My family and I believed she returned home after her search in New York yielded a painful discovery.”

“I have reason to believe that Eve is in danger,” says Dr. Sarah. “She left New York and moved next door to me. She wouldn’t have packed up for North Carolina without a word to me. She wouldn’t have just stopped answering my calls. We’re that close.”

“Where do you live, Dr. Sarah?” asks Gil.

“Hamden, Connecticut,” answers Dr. Sarah. “I run a veterinary center.”

“I didn’t realize that Eve had moved anywhere other than where her family is,” says Malcolm. He re-evaluates Dr. Sarah’s age and mentally dials back the years. “If she left New York to avoid an enemy or someone who wished her harm, then I will look into whatever leads you can give me.”

“Nick Endicott. He could make her disappear.”

“Endicott? Why does that name sound familiar?” says Gil.

“Endicott Pharmaceuticals. How did Eve catch the attention of such a noteworthy figure?” asks Malcolm.

“He’s a monster, that Nick. If there’s anyone who would have hired someone to make Eve go away for asking the wrong people the right questions, it would be him,” says Dr. Sarah emphatically.

“Eve must’ve trusted you with valuable details, considering how much insight you have into her investigations. Whoever Eve ran across may come for you next,” pronounces Malcolm with dead certainty, like one on a mission. He sees through her intentionally constructed identity. She and Eve are closer than neighbors. A golden charm bracelet with sickle moons and their mother’s initials momentarily peeks out of her sleeve.

She is marked for death. John’s ring glimmers on his right hand, fixed and composed like a surgeon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? What'd I tell ya? The Whitlys survived Malcolm and John's holy union. A part of me felt like maybe I should scale back on the evil. But the other part cackled over y'all going "Author... Author... are you SURE you're not killing off my babies?"
> 
> This entire chapter was about John and Malcolm fucking on Martin's desk. Just to clarify.
> 
> If you're wondering about the deals with John, Martin, and the Sanders sisters... Martin asked John for help. John kills Eve, draws out Sophie. I'm not going to get into that subplot with intricate detail, but basically, Martin's begun the process of illegally negotiating his freedom from prison.
> 
> A short epilogue is in progress, but the main story arc is completed. Once I post the epilogue, I will de-Anon the fic. I didn't want this on my pseud until I was 100% going to finish strong. ^_^U
> 
> Thanks for tuning in!


	10. Closing Time | Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> murder dads

Crystal Parker gets induced at Westfield Memorial Hospital. With her strong core muscles, she’s not pushing for very long once the OBGYN breaks her water. Malcolm leaves an active crime scene reluctantly, but he knows he would forever regret missing out on his firstborn. Gil is too happy to throw him out. 

His husband John is absent from the maternity ward, but in this case, Malcolm is grateful because John is keeping Isaac Parker company while waiting for the hospital to discharge Crystal. Isaac has someone to hang out with despite being isolated from children his age. 

As a thoughtful gesture to Crystal, Jessica hired a comedically German minder, a ‘92 Olympian, who could fend against Isaac’s explosive disorder. Ilsa is paid up for the week to help Crystal with the more intensive household chores. If the milk came in, Crystal agreed to pump for a maximum of three months. If not, then milk banks until Jessica locates a wet nurse.

In retrospect, Malcolm wishes that he had introduced them earlier. Much of the little details of child care and care schedules had been worked out during brunches shared by his mother and the mother of his child. They planned to get drinks to celebrate Crystal getting sterilized after her second child.

Baby boy Whitly is born at night, 7 lb 6 oz. Though Crystal is older, her ingrained habits of exercise and a clean nutritious diet kept the baby at a healthy weight. Malcolm calls John to tell him the good news. Well after Isaac’s bedtime, John arrives to meet their son. He and Malcolm stand outside the nursery, holding each other and watching their baby.

“Emmanuel,” says John. Malcolm supposes that John wants to make sure their son has God in his life or some shit.

“I like it, but not as much as I like John Whitly the second,” replies Malcolm. Malcolm wants to make sure that their son knows who his father is, in name if not by blood.

“Junior?” John turns it over.

John winds up signing the adoption papers for John E. Whitly, Jr. It’s the name under which Junior will later be baptized. They take Junior home to the loft. For now, John and Malcolm reside at the loft, but they’re looking into apartments with individual bedrooms, at least three, and enclosed stairways for child safety measures. Most of the time, their baby is left to the mercy of his grandmother and an endless train of lace embroidered cotton layettes.

“That’s a lot of frilly dresses for a poop machine,” says John.

John is the father who more regularly picks up their baby from grandmother’s house. He closes up shop at 6 pm, strips his coveralls, and throws on a dinner jacket that is perpetually hanging in his work truck. Jessica insists that John joins her for dinner, in evening dress. More often than not, Malcolm finishes work after the dinner hour and goes home to John and their baby.

One thing that John did not sign up for was becoming the de facto hotline for 1-800-Malcolm-Please. He puts the fear of God into Malcolm who improves his response time to calls and urgent texts from Jessica or Ainsley.

They both accept that despite having a baby, Malcolm can’t shut off his mind when he digs into a case. Initially, when Junior was a newborn, Malcolm would rush out of precinct or from a site of investigation. But then he would end up typing notes into his phone at his mother’s dinner table, having left his brain at work.

When John and Junior come home, John plates up Malcolm’s food from grandmother’s house. It’s actually really nice for Malcolm to shower after work and come out to a table set with food. If the baby wakes up during Malcolm’s dinner, John warms up a bottle of Crystal’s breastmilk or formula for sensitive tummies if it’s later in the week. John loads the dishwasher while Malcolm burps Junior or swabs Junior’s gums with a soft cloth. When Junior’s teething, they switch to Thomas the train fluoride free toothpaste and a toothbrush with silicone bristles which resembles an ear of yellow corn.

As Junior grows into a toddler, he is eyeballs for what’s on daddy’s plate and in his wine glass.

Malcolm gets to eat. John gets shut eye.

Before John heads off to bed, they watch Junior’s auntie on TV, with the murder news muted. Malcolm holds their son and John holds him.

Junior has curly white-blond hair. His eyes are a hazel brown. Unless his hair darkens into brunet, Junior will not have eyebrows that are visible to the naked eye. Junior is the cutest potato spud.

“He doesn’t look like me or you,” says John.

“The curly hair may be from his paternal grandfather,” says Malcolm.

“What if he takes after his grandfather in other ways?” asks John.

“We don’t know until he’s further along in his development. When he’s three, we’ll see personality traits that indicate how he’ll behave in his 20s.” Malcolm cuddles the fuzzy top of Junior’s head underneath his chin.

“And if he is?” questions John.

“If he struggles to empathize, if he self-isolates, we deal with it. One thing that I will not do, is to force him to be something that he’s not. Whatever strengths that Junior has, we’ll nurture them. If he’s gentle…” Malcolm kisses Junior’s tiny curled fist. “... you don’t get to break him into something that he’s not.”

John cups Malcom’s chin and turns his head. “Better that I do it than some other monster.”

John smooches Malcolm’s frown lines. “I’m good with him being a kid while he’s a kid. I’ll love him even if he’s soft and dumb.”

“I want to have this for as long as I can, dear,” says Malcolm. He lays his head on John’s shoulder.

“It’s time to put Junior down,” murmurs John. He bites Malcolm’s earlobe. “Then it’s your turn, darling.”

* * *

Malcolm sets their dining room table with a disposable Cars party tablecloth and matching paper plates. Little foil balloons on a stick are bunched into hard foam wrapped in silver foil with curly red ribbons. A plastic banner reading ‘Happy Fathers Day!” hangs from the ceiling, centered for the camera on its tripod, gifted to them by Ainsley.

John’s gift escapes from the large box topped with a bow while Malcolm cuts the French toast for Junior to eat with his fingers.

Junior goes “woof woof!” when a chocolate Labrador retriever paws up to the table. The dog’s hazel eyes peer at them amicably, nose raised in inquiry over the edible contents of their celebration.

“Oh no! The surprise is ruined now, you silly puppy,” complains Malcolm. He had conspired to get a candid of John's surprise.

Junior pushes his sticks of French toast off of his high chair food tray. The brown dog accepts Junior’s token of friendship and helps Junior clean up. The dog’s tongue flops onto the floor, licking up maple syrup. Junior hides his face behind his sticky hands when Malcolm gives him a look.

“Uh oh, Daddy.”

John laughs before Malcolm’s cheek is graced with John’s semi-sticky kisses.

John dubs the newest member of their family Fletcher. In just a couple of weeks, Malcolm can’t picture a life more idyllic than vegetating on the couch, under the zig-zag baby blanket knitted by John’s grandmother, for another movie re-watch of Frozen as Junior sings along and Fletcher cocks his sleek head into John’s lap for more scratches. Fletcher’s ears twitch at Junior’s musical styling.

“Junior can sing about as well as I can,” says John in a flat voice. He ruffles Junior’s blond-white curls. “That’s right, son. Reindeers are, in fact, better than people.”

“Do you like your gift?” says Malcolm. The dog looks very content on John’s lap, which Malcolm strongly identifies with.

“It’s great, dear. But I was hoping for another one.”

“Another puppy?! You’re crazy,” says Malcolm.

“No, you ding dong.” John boops Malcolm’s nose. “I want _another_ little one.”

“I’ll think about it,” says Malcolm, with stipulations. “You don’t get to grow the shaggy mountain beard again.” Despite his skepticism, Malcolm smiles when he’s up all night dreaming.

* * *

“Is it weird not to cry?” Ainsley asks Malcolm. It’s the two of them with their mother in the crematorium. Their step-father Gil is chasing Junior around the ancestral mansion.

“There’s a widow who’s addicted to eating her husband’s ashes,” says Malcolm.

“Thanks for nothing, bro,” says Ainsley, budging him with her shoulders.

“Children,” says Jessica.

“What? We’re not exactly here to pay our respects,” says Malcolm.

The funerary employee allows them one more looky-loo at the late Martin Whitly, deceased, rather ironically, of heart arrhythmia issues. He passed away in sleep, peacefully, barely two nights ago. The corpse is not embalmed, per Martin’s Jewish lineage.

“That’s the bastard, alright.” Jessica doesn’t move until the funerary employees slide Martin’s pine box into the cremation chamber. “Aren’t you going to incinerate it, sir?”

“If we do it, can I see you folks out until the cremation is finished?” asks one employee.

“Yes, sir,” says Jessica. She knocks on the stainless steel door to Martin’s cremation chamber. “Do you hear that, children? It’s music to my ears.” Grim satisfaction settles over her porcelain features, unblinking blue eyes like a doll. She pivots on her scarlet bottomed heels after witnessing the tongues of flame.

The urn feels creepily warm as Malcolm conveys it to his mother. As next of kin, Malcolm signed off on the funerary arrangements. Jessica wasn’t able to manage it as the ex-wife. Adolpho the chauffeur drops off Jessica at 8th Avenue bus terminal.

Malcolm moves on to the next body, i.e: his job. He arrives at the crime scene before Gil who calls him in for homicide work. Gil stays with Junior until John does pick up from Milton house. 

Ainsley recounts the scene to Malcolm later. “Yep, bee line to the men's room. She flushed the ashes in several toilets, including the handicap stall.”

It’s almost dinner time when Malcolm heads to Salvage Garden the junkyard. Inside John’s garage, Junior is hammering a nail into a 2 x 4 wood block clamped in a vice. John built Junior a miniature workbench. Malcolm doesn’t like it, despite parental supervision.

“It’s cedar wood. Softer, for Junior to hammer away. He needs to know his way around these things, dear.” John crouches down to examine Junior’s craftsmanship. He touches the errant dents in the cedar wood. John moves Junior’s hands closer to the head of the hammer to improve the control of his swing. “That’s better. Bang it in, son. Alright, Thor Junior!”

“If we have a little girl, you agree to teach her the same as what you’re showing Junior,” says Malcolm. He supposes then that John will get his point.

“Fair is fair,” agrees John. He squints at Malcolm to figure out what the catch is.

Any attempt to confiscate the hammer results in Junior squallin’ to high heaven. Malcolm is resigned to hovering like the helicopter parent that he swore he wouldn’t become. It’s genetic for Malcolm.

With Malcolm keeping an eye on their son, John turns his attention to Isaac’s progress of cleaning and lubing up separate engine parts.

“Why do I have to?” grumbles Isaac. His nose has a black smudge.

“You did stab your dad one hundred times,” says John. “Looks like you’re about finished. I’ll take over for the electrical bits. Make sure you scrub up real good. Keep your nose clean.”

Isaac stalks off. Before Isaac gets to go home, John grabs a handheld metal detector. Isaac’s face clouds over when the wand alerts John to a problem area. Isaac lifts up his sleeves and turns out his pockets, but John ain’t havin’ it. Isaac reluctantly strips his baggy flannel shirt which probably belonged to his late father.

Isaac duct taped a hunk of wood and a chisel to his upper arm, around the sleeve of his T-shirt. The hunk of wood is partially chipped into a goblin’s head with deformed ears, crooked nose, spotted with knots.

“Ugly little fella,” says John; he’s impressed.

“What’s the problem?” asks Malcolm. He’s holding Junior who’s squirming and trying to lick Malcolm’s hand.

“It’s handled, dear. You wait in the van with Junior. We won’t be long,” says John.

“Okay, dear. If you’re later than fifteen minutes, we pick the music,” says Malcolm. Junior cheers. Malcolm’s look harbors the unspoken threat of boy band One Direction.

“Put your hand on the bench, Parker,” says John.

Isaac nervously does so. John brings the chisel down on the heavily worn surface, between Isaac’s thumb and forefinger.

“I.” Thunk. Forefinger and middle.

“Will not.” Thunk! Middle and ring.

“Steal.” THUNK!! Ring and little finger.

John extends the handle of the chisel to Isaac, who’s too paralyzed to shrink away. “Now you go. Ten times in a row.”

“I will not steal. _Hic._ Will. Not steal.” Isaac’s eyes water up as he stabs the space between the fingers of his right hand. His greasy fingers, because he didn’t listen to Uncle John about proper handwashing technique, causes the chisel to slip. Isaac nicks the skin near the base of his pinky.

But John doesn’t give Isaac any pause or quarter. “Faster. Go faster! You gonna be a thief, your hand better be quicker n’ that!!” John snarls over him. John steps aside when the point of the chisel slashes at his left side. John grabs the chisel by the metal end. Isaac’s head collides with the workbench. The cold tip of sharp metal kisses the swirl of Isaac’s ear.

“I’m sorry, Uncle John! I’m sorry. You’re right, already! I should’ve asked!! I’ll ask next time!” shouts Isaac. “Uncle, uncle!”

“Apology accepted,” says John. “Next time I’ll pop your eardrum. You ain’t exactly using ‘em to listen to your elders.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” cries Isaac. John bandages the cut. He lets Isaac pick out the green Hulk band aid. Isaac scampers to the family van, eager to be taken home when his mother calls Malcolm.

John washes his hands and starts closing up shop.

“A plus parenting, Johnny boy. Although you are more like a Dutch uncle for that savage little child,” says a familiar voice. It’s the man who John plans to train and then hire on as a worker to perform more of the heavy lifting at the junkyard. John plans to work part-time hours and spend more precious time with his family.

“What’s up, Doc?” greets John. After a moment, he and his father-in-law hug. Despite his pained expression, Martin claps his shoulders.

“How the hell did you get sunburned this time of year?” asks John. He points at Martin’s blotchy red face and neck.

“Let's just say that I saw the light before I narrowly missed my own funeral,” says Martin. His hands are also mildly blistered.

“Can’t believe you did it, son of a gun! I gotta motor. Lock up for me, will ya?” requests John.

“But of course. I would steward well that with which I am entrusted. Will Junior be around any time soon?” Martin asks. “I am sorry that I just missed him.”

“We’ll see. If you want, I can tell Malcolm to bring him here,” offers John.

“Maybe after I’m done peeling,” says Martin self consciously, as if he’s ever not conscious of only himself. “I don’t want to look bad for our little family reunion, after all.”

John whacks Martin on the shoulder, grinning at the aggravated pout he gets. It sure looks like it stings. Nevertheless, John isn’t too worried when he gives Martin the keys to the kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for going on this journey with me in the trash canoe.
> 
> Most of all, thanks to KateSamantha. I would say that the first few chapters were sincerely written with her in mind before the murder husbands hijacked the story. ^_^;;;; It became a hostage situation, with little regard to mine or Kate’s fanfiction preferences.
> 
> This story would never have been written if not for her Landing Day, the date when my friend arrived on this planet. I believe her general critique of humanity as a whole, with which I am complicit, is that men should make babies, with each other.
> 
> I really am thankful to my friends who influence my writing. Caitiejay’s jizzjazz fics re-kindled my interest in Watkins even as PSon offered more trash daddies for Malcolm to investigate. Friday patiently sat with me and fed my ego while I spitballed ideas. Cosmic kept my identity secret while I wrote this fic. There are secrets underneath that mushroom cap fufufufu.
> 
> Now that I finished, I have de-Anon’d. Surprise, surprise! An author who has written John forcing Malcolm to do things… wrote a fic about John forcing Malcolm to do things.
> 
> P.S: If I never responded to your comments, it's because I was chipping away at this story. Mucho appreciated. I definitely re-read the comments to motivate myself. And now I am FREE. Hello season 2 daddies.


	11. Absolutely (Story of a Girl) | mpreg bonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> preggo Malcolm's eggo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is absolutely a chapter for KateSamantha. I can't very well type up a fic for you that doesn't include the mpreg tag.
> 
> If you're not into mpreg, no harm done. Just turn back now if this is not your kind of weird.
> 
> But if you wanna watch trash man knock up Malcolm, then please, enjoy!

The house where John and Malcolm reside is well settled after their move from a three bedroom apartment. Their small family needed two levels to neutralize Malcolm’s late night outbursts. The downstairs spare room was soundproofed and converted to Malcolm’s panic vault. Upstairs is the master bedroom, Junior’s room, and a very spacious guestroom. Junior’s bedroom walls are covered with animals from Noah’s ark, a theme echoed by the shelves which John was obliged to anchor to the walls for Junior’s collection of animal plushies.

Sunshine gets a deluxe upgrade inside a 69-inch extra large wrought iron home with three levels, including multiple ladders, all covered in non-toxic paint. Food and water is stored on the lowest level to help contain the mess which is inevitable in a birdie home that is a tower compared to Sunshine's shabby accommodations in Malcolm's previous bachelor pad. A little wicker basket beneath the flight cage stores extra toys to rotate. Sunshine enjoys more perches, chew toys, and two birdie swings; however, she is learning to share with her roomie; another budgie with sky blue on its breast.

"What on God's green earth! Dear, I thought Happy was a lady bird?" says John, going over to the cage to investigate the commotion.

"Happy is a she, dear," confirms Malcolm. He is in the middle of conveying the salad to the dining area, closer to where Sunshine and Happy reside. 

"I think they're lesbudgies, Malcolm," says John, shocked and unable to look away.

Malcolm's shoulder bumps John's. "They're a cute couple! It's not like there will be any hatchlings. Perhaps we can get them a new birdbath, as a congratulations."

"Them birds going at it like the Bloodhound Gang. I don't wanna have that conversation with Junior this early," grumbles John.

"Might I recommend a fresh take on the story of Noah's ark? Inform our son what really made that boat rock," retorts Malcolm.

John shoots a warning look at his husband. "Jesus, you're going to call up the dev--"

The doorbell makes Malcolm jump. John's hand immediately finds his lower back, rubbing and soothing. Though their guest of honor is expected, Malcolm’s hands are unsteady beneath the wooden salad bowl. They’ve learned not to use glass when Malcolm is on salad duty.

“...and there he is. I’ll get it, dear,” says John. He opens their home to his father-in-law who passes over the threshold bearing flowers and wine.

“A little belated, but congratulations on your nuptials. I do believe your anniversary is coming up,” greets Martin.

“Hi, Dad,” says Malcolm.

“Paw Paw!” shouts Junior, toddling to Martin. He knows Martin as Grandpa Michael.

John grabs the wheeled carry-on luggage sitting on the porch. Malcolm accepts the flowers and wine. It’s not their first meeting, but Malcolm will never get over it. He’ll always be haunted by his father’s supine body in that pine box.

What helps is that Martin is a far cry from what he was, interred within Claremont Psychiatric. For a dead man, Martin is lookin’ alive. More time in the sun, settling into his new life with recent acquaintances, and unrestricted jaunts around the city has ineffably revitalized him. 

Martin has leaned out. While he awaits credentials for obtaining a real driver's license, Martin walks and transits everywhere. The puffiness in his face has dissipated, years peeling off, as each day of freedom weakens his prison fetters. Martin keeps his curls short, flat and maintains a thick mustache with more black hairs than not. His high forehead with ponderous lines remains the same, but he is not easily recognizable. Armored by tea-stained tweeds, Martin has a dated and eccentric academic air about him similar to a historian or anthropology professor.

Malcolm doesn’t know how to respond to the changes. Luckily, Malcolm’s son sets an excellent example. Martin does rocketman takeoff noises for liftoff and Junior squeezes Martin’s head with his chubby legs and dimpled arms. Malcolm joins in on the hug fest, briefly stepping out from the heaviness of twenty plus years.

“It’s okay, son. I took the long way, but I’m here now. I couldn’t be prouder,” says Martin, beaming through Junior’s tangled hug. He chuckles. “I understand that the ‘stache requires a bit of an adjustment.”

“How long are you staying?” asks Malcolm. “Before you go on your cross-country bender?”

Martin plans to ride the train from New York to San Francisco. For now, Martin is limited to domestic travel, but he appears undaunted by his travel restrictions necessitated by concealment.

“Two days here with your lovely family. It’ll be too short of a weekend, but then embark I must,” says Martin. 

Malcolm disentangles his son before Junior’s heel mashes into Martin’s eye.

Martin crouches down and shakes paws with Fletcher the chocolate Labrador retriever. “Oh! I had not met the latest addition to your family.”

“Let’s dig in while the food’s hot,” says John.

“We ordered take-out for you if you’re still vegan,” says Malcolm, brushing his hair back from Junior’s sticky palms.

“No red meat. I confess that I relapsed into seafood and poultry,” says Martin.

Martin is about to open his mouth when Malcolm adds more than half a can of seltzer water to a glass of premium vintage. Malcolm’s nostrils flare, his hand tightening around the wine glass, when Martin’s gaze flicks to Malcolm’s belt which is buckled loosely into a pristine notch and the comfy polo shirt in place of a structured waistcoat. Martin looks over to John who is cutting up green beans for their son.

Malcolm shakes his head at his father.

“This wine is sour! Wouldn’t be good for- uh- for certain conditions,” says Martin. He snatches Malcom’s glass and pours it down the drain before firmly corking the bottle. “You can make better use of it as cooking sherry.”

“Tastes like the good stuff to me. I thought prison food would’ve fixed your hoity-toity standards, Martin,” says John.

“Nothing is too good for my family,” says Martin. He raises his glass to Malcolm with a knowing smile. 

“Thanks, Dad,” says Malcolm, who is torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cover his face.

John gamely clinks his glass. Then Junior holds out his tumbler filled with milk, completing the toast.

* * *

A simple wardrobe change is all it takes for Malcolm to lure a new friend from the streets. Malcolm supposes that he has the right look to him, tired and slightly roughed up, petite in build, and a touch underfed. Torn cut-outs in denim-like leggings, black V-neck long sleeve, and a studded belt from Hot Topic.

A gentleman with male pattern baldness pulls up to the bus zone after Malcolm declines to hop onto the bus. He is white, clean-shaven, late 50s, and his car is very clean.

“Would you like a ride, son?”

“If you like to party, Daddy,” says Malcolm. His hands slot into his tight back pockets. His shirt rides up, flashing a pale sliver, drawing the male gaze. “I know a spot. Circle around. Kidron and 175th.”

He hoofs it to a junkyard, circumventing the risks of getting into a vehicle where any number of factors could incapacitate him. Of course, Malcolm’s gentleman friend finds an ideal spot to park--not piled with garbage, not too close to a hydrant, and an unobstructed view of the street which appears less dangerous than what one would expect in the Bronx. No dealers or menacing figures who could be Malcolm’s pimp is posted at the intersection.

Malcolm sashays in front of the gentleman, a few steps ahead to allow for a close perusal of the goods, but not too close that he would easily be pinned down and compelled to perform for the man’s gratification. As his hips sway, Malcolm pulls his studded belt free from the loops of his cut-out leggings. He folds the belt with the studs facing out, the better to direct the gentleman’s attention with the shiny and to implant the suggestion of breaking Malcolm’s ass.

By the time that the john begins to question where and when, Malcolm’s satisfied his role for the evening, if not the john who is jonesing for a pretty boy to slobber on his dick. One way or another, the john falls down the rabbit hole and into a Winnebago. If the john didn’t hide his phone in the console or glove compartment of his vehicle, he’ll get no signal on his mobile phone. 

The Winnebago is buried within subterranean building material embedded with aluminum fragments. The top hatch door is painted with a conductive shielding primer. The windows are covered by salvaged copper mesh. The combined enhancements make up a crude Faraday murder cage which prevents the john from dialing 911 while the battery drains. Nor can the john’s concerned partner or family locate his device.

Disposing of the john’s vehicle is as simple as removing the license plate for a common make and model before selling off its parts. For truly rare antiquated numbers, John switches in an out-of-state license plate and respectfully tows a thing of beauty to a nicer part of town for the borough to deal with.

If Malcolm didn’t know better, he’d assume that John’s sentimentality would get them caught.

* * *

John’s hidden romantic streak is still going strong, years after their wedding. One end of the workbench is draped with a white tablecloth, weighed down by a pair of white pillar candles contained within long glass tubes. A slice of red velvet topped with buttercream swirls awaits them. Rather than freezing a slice of their wedding cake to have on their anniversary, John pragmatically orders red velvet from the business which baked their cake.

Malcolm doesn’t get to have a sweet, sweet taste until he’s been very good for his husband. Malcolm’s bare ass is perched on the other end of the workbench. Malcolm sees the candlelight glowing on the cake. His wrists and shoulders are knotted with Shibari rope secured to the legs of the workbench. John doesn’t leave him much wiggle room.

Besides the rope, Malcolm wears John’s class ring for the special occasion.

John eases his slick fingers into Malcolm’s tight little hole. His slow, thorough, almost explorative pace, speaks to his romantic mood. Malcolm’s feet curve over the edge of the workbench as John thrusts toward the base of Malcolm’s cock from within. The rope digs in as John leisurely strokes a pleasure spot. His grip on Malcolm’s cock is confident, having learned Malcolm’s physicality.

Malcolm is trying very hard to be good even as John bruises his thighs with hearty little bites. John kisses each mark as his hand quickens inside Malcolm. He’s gunning for the sweet trigger that will make Malcolm come all over himself and fall apart in a twitchy heap.

“Johnnie!” wails Malcolm. Little “ah!” noises escape as he grabs at the ropes tying him down. He’s shaking as warm ropes of come paint his sweaty skin. Malcolm arches like he’s possessed when John spreads him wider with his fingers apart, gasping for mercy that he’s not going to get. John squeezes a buttock affectionately before wiping his fingers off on Malcolm’s leg.

Malcolm gets a short break from torture while John washes up at the utility sink and dries his hands with a hand towel. John makes sure his hands are clean and dry when he presents a familiar set of lingerie to Malcolm. Malcolm recognizes them from their wedding night.

“Did you ever wonder where these got to?” teases John. His hand strokes the top of Malcolm’s foot as he brings Malcolm’s ankle through the opening of the white panties embroidered with lilies. The heel of John’s palm presses into his taint, feels up his crevice. Somehow it feels dirtier when John touches him through the panties. John slips the bridal garter around Malcolm’s neck, turning the elastic silk band until the little blue bow with the Swarovski crystal is centered with his Adam’s apple.

With Malcolm’s hands tied, quite literally, John spoon feeds Malcolm a slice of their wedding cake by candlelight. The exact taste brings up delicious memories and terror which still coils around Malcolm’s heart.

“Alright, dear. Get dressed. It’s showtime,” says John, loosening the rope.

Malcolm pulls on cheap gym clothes. The cotton fabric is black, faded from many stringent washings. Once more, as he has done many times before, Malcolm follows John into the underworld.

Tonight’s killing is different. John makes it a point to cover the sinner’s head with a pillow case. He usually wants to watch their faces. Malcolm carefully brandishes a hilted dagger as John unties the drawstrings of his sweatpants. Malcolm steps out of the sweatpants after John pulls them down. He’s in a dark shirt and the pristine lingerie.

“May I?” says Malcolm, gesturing at the man who’s groaning through the pillow case. John doesn’t want anyone to see Malcolm half-naked, even before sending them to hell.

“Please. Have at it,” simpers John. He’s watching Malcolm as sinner’s blood soaks the lingerie. The blood casts off onto the garter around Malcolm’s neck.

John doesn’t wait for them to clear the Winnebago. He’s thoroughly aroused from the scarlet stained lingerie. He strips off the bloody shirt but insists on Malcolm keeping on the panties. Malcolm grips the dining table inside the Winnebago as John pounds him, hard and fast, into the plastic. John rubs and paws at the panties, tearing the velvet-tulle when he fills Malcolm with incredible amounts of seed.

His kiss is almost chaste as he softens inside Malcolm. They stay joined for a bit longer to whisper sweet nothings.

“Happy anniversary, dear,” croons John. A look of worry crosses his face when Malcolm doesn’t say it back right away. “Everything alright, Mal?”

“Perfect. It’s all perfect,” says Malcolm. His lips tremble. He clenches around John softly throbbing inside him. John’s hold on him tightens as he kisses Malcolm’s pulse. Malcolm waits for John to look at him again.

Then he tells John. “I’m pregnant.”

“Thank the Lord I went all out. That’s the best gift ever!” exclaims John. Their kiss tastes of passion and red velvet. John lays him down. They both groan, as one, when John withdraws. He kisses down Malcolm’s chest before nuzzling at Malcolm’s stomach on his knees. John's expression is nothing less than reverent, from the possibility of Malcolm swelling large with his child. Malcolm’s hand runs through John’s dark gray hair. Their fingers intertwine. They are stuck together by blood and so much more.

* * *

John doubts himself the worst when their daughter is born. Born angry and unapologetic about her business of being loud. She has huge, brown eyes that are like bottomless wells. Black hair that will settle into a straight fringe over her dark brows. She stole her daddy's lashes. John names her Mary. Malcolm chooses Matilda for her middle name. It feels apt for Malcolm to do so, a life for a life, sweet for bitter.

“Do you want your daughter?” asks Malcolm. He speaks up as John wrestles with himself.

“I don’t know that I can do this,” says John. “Not without killing somebody.”

“There will be plenty of play boys chasing our little girl’s fortune. It's inevitable that you'll dispatch at least one opportunist,” assures Malcolm.

“She’s mine,” hisses John possessively. He holds her more often than Malcolm does. They’re going to have to be careful about playing favorites, with John favoring her on a whole other level, compared to his more laid back approach to Junior’s birth. John is, quite simply, enraptured with his very own child.

“She’s ours. She’ll be the best of us both, dear,” says Malcolm.

“You’ll have to stop me from killing her the first time she breaks my heart,” mutters John.

“Who’s to say that she can’t fight back?” retorts Malcolm. “Remember when you put that hammer in Junior’s tiny hands?”

“But she’s my baby! And the tool’s so heavy. What if she hurts herself?” fusses John.

“Mmhm. But didn’t a certain daddy agree that he would teach a little girl the same things as what he taught Junior?” asks Malcolm pointedly.

“You win, dear. I get why you weren’t happy about Junior swinging the big tools,” concedes John.

“Thank you, Johnnie. I expect our little girl to bring down the hammer when she’s bigger,” says Malcolm. “Now how about we plan our next family trip?”

“Are you thinking Cape Cod with their Paw Paw?” says John, slyly. Meaning Martin.

“God, no. The dad jokes would be at an eleven,” refuses Malcolm. “I was thinking about another camping trip at Mary’s baptism last Sunday. You could baptize the kids in our river.”

“I love you, Mal.”

John's eyes shine from visions of teaching their kids how to gut fresh-caught perch, kill what they catch. Malcolm envisions the young woman who Mary Matilda Whitly will become. He suspects that Mary would be the wrench wench in her girl group who could change out a flat tire or jury rig a timing belt, in her debutante ballgown if necessary. Junior will learn to keep on his toes as a protective big brother, maybe help bury the bodies.

The husbands sit together on the couch, cuddled under the zig-zag blanket, and hash out plans for the next Whitly family extravaganza. Fletcher, their chocolate Labrador retriever, will join them by the riverside. Martin would love a camping trip with his grandchildren and his sons, the one that he made and the one who Malcolm brought home.

**Fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: I added in the lesbudgies. Sunshine gettin' in some Happy.
> 
> Special thanks to KateSamantha for naming the babies and the puppyyyyy.
> 
> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand that's all folks!


End file.
